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.