Submitted by Anna on Mon, 02/07/2011 - 20:37

You have been pushing, pushing
Pushing me
Until I am forced to open.

Grow, plant, grow.
Dig, roots, dig.

It started in May,
But I was still a bud
Until November.

Bloom, flower, bloom.
Drink, tendril, drink.

Now I’m shivering,
Too young to have petals
But not emerald alone.
It is now winter,
And I am going to die.
Thank you???

Live, rose, live.

You promised me
Not dead oaths, but
Flourishing, colorful covenants.

An Appalachian Tale

Submitted by Timothy on Mon, 11/27/2006 - 08:00

*Based on a true story*

The faint glow of the moon was drowned in a blaze of light as a battered pickup truck rounded the corner of the rough dirt road. It bounced slowly over the uneven surface as it navigated the sharp turns of the valley. The driver gazed with half focus on the road ahead as it was revealed by the headlights. He fancied he could stay on the road even without the lights, he’d traveled it so many times.