Tag: David Stones

Even in the sting and sear of these shrapnel days, the gardens insist on their green rebellions, stubborn fists of tulips pushed through the lingering skin of frost and body parts, the lilacs by the Dnipro gushing violet beside grandmothers planting potatoes among the sandbags, hands wizened by survival, each seed an argument with the

My hummingbird does not arrive, it materializes, like an answer, suddenly not there and then is, an invention on emerald fly wheels, a drone-whirring of liquid engines suspended among the blooms on threads of wind and magic. What force each morning commands him to my garden? What bottle green and flaring fuse holds him in