search instagram arrow-down


best of HDtS editor's notes fiction interviews nonfiction poetry reviews

Archives by date

Archives by theme

Are these the same sort that grew
below the bedroom of my childhood?

Every spring those leaves turned dark and lovely,
a few lacy blooms tatting across the top.

Was it my father’s shears, or the light or ground
which made those bushes so much less than these,

this on-going aisle of froth and flower?
The breeze brings them to such tender trembling,

like women made of unshed tears.


Melissa Carl teaches world cultures, advanced placement European history and gifted seminar in York, Penn. She lives with her husband, son, dingo, and a dozen hermit crabs. Melissa’s soul requires ocean, so she spends her summers in Oak Island.

© 2013, Melissa Carl

Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: