I love the shared silence of readers. I haven’t done that in a long, long time; sit in a room with good company, each one in a corner and just read – interrupted by nothing but the call of a sunbird, or the cry of a child – whose imagination absorbs you as much as your book, who is looking outside the door, past the trees, at something only she knows, before you lift her up and hold her close as long as she will let you, and just breathe.

 

Bonsai at the Potter’s Stall
Kay Mullen

 

Under fluorescent light,

aligned on a bench

 

and table top, oranges

the size of marbles dangle

 

from trees with glossy

leaves. White trumpets

 

bloom in tiny clay pots.

Under a firethorn’s twisted

 

limbs, a three inch monk

holds a cup from which

 

he appears to drink

the interior life. The potter

 

prizes his bonsai children

who will never grow up,

 

never leave home.

 

 

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