Mid-morning, and the dial thermometer’s big red arrow creeps toward 50. A small sun and bare trees bend in the distance of its convex glass.


  1. Willow

    My parents owned an inexpensive set of china
    showing a world glazed in blue and white: a few
    three-tiered pagodas, thumbnails of gardens
    planted to peach or willow trees. Villagers
    crossed footbridges presumably to the next
    town beyond the rim of the dinner plate,
    and fishermen dipped their nets in placid
    water. A woman sat at an upstairs window
    reading a book, or doing sums, or writing
    in a journal. A man cooled his bare feet in
    the shallows, not doing anything much.
    It was always dawn or dusk, and small birds
    flew toward a miniature sun above the trees.
    They could not have gone too far
    from the periphery, nor pierced the convex
    glass of the dome that rested on the plate—
    so then what is that smudge on the sill,
    what has become of the woman who once
    sat there with her inks and scrolls?
    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    03 17 2011

Comments are closed.