Sarah Rossiter

Listeningto acorns fallfrom the oaksin the last lightof a late summerday to land out ofsight on the darkforest floor,I wonder howmany will findtheir way intothe soil to rootin secret, waitingfor spring to sendtimid tendrils intothe dangerous air.Not many, I suppose,life being what it is,though in a . . . . Continue Reading »

Without warning, they appear, eachcluster separate from the next, goldbeads strung on strands of grass,glowing on the darkest days beneaththe fringe of summer trees, though whoknows how, or where they came from?Yet faith, not knowledge, is the sourceof hope that each bright blossom bringsalong with . . . . Continue Reading »