Claire Reutter In third grade, we were given the assignment to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I had no idea, but I liked seeing my mom plant flowers. I approached my teacher. “Um, Mrs. Walsh, What are those people called who take care of...
Janet Marugg It was snowing as she sat on her garden bench, white flakes fell and blended into her hair. In her hand, a shock of yellow. A crow on the bench beside her was iridescent blue-black on the white world. It felt like a long, beautiful moment to take...
Dee Horne Giant strawberries on steroids are abnormal wild strawberries rule. Dee Horne is a creative writer. She respectfully acknowledges the traditional unceded territories of the Coast Salish people and thank the Snaw’naw’as and Qualicum First...
Faith Kaltenbach My mother’s happy childhood in a protected country arboretum left her loving the green earth and, more-or-less, believing in flower fairies. She told us their stories, ‘of course this is just pretend,’ while she fashioned flamenco dancers from...
Andrea Penner I take no creditfor what appeared todayin our back garden. All praiseto the sun, the rainlast winter’s snowand someone’slong ago thoughtthat a rose bushneeded to livejust there. All gratitudefor the hands(not mine)that fed and wateredpruned and...
