It Begins when the Leaves Turn | Grace Wells She tied the blushed bohreen leaves. Faced north. Took stock. Heard summer end in the thrum of small creatures at harvest, in flickering wing-born hearts deciding course mid-flight. On darkening roads she would drive the scarlet car, unraveling time, driving to meet him. Days going out into her garden, fingers charted each increasing blemish, mould spores, wilted stems. She turned branches, put her lips to the small brown details of decay. She owned the land, loved how winter crept forward, took possession. How the promise in its breath stirred her, frost lining each vermillion leaf. bohreen — an Irish word for a narrow road or lane.  read about the author Contributors.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0
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commentary | poetry | fiction | chicago | autumn 2007  
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