Essay No. 11 – Simona Zaretsky

Letters to Flowers We stand in that field. The sun traces you in gold and you shine from behind, with one hand resting on the rough stone. The stone rises up to your fingers, needing your touch like you need its grey assurance. There is a lot of necessity sitting heavy in the July humidity. The grass a sweet shade of green, patiently waiting for … Continue reading Essay No. 11 – Simona Zaretsky