solidfoodpress

By Kris Green | Series | After mowing my yard, I push the lawnmower toward the back door and start cleaning up. I inhale the smell of fresh-cut grass and try not to remember that I once read that the scent is the plant’s way of crying out in pain.

by J.W. Goossen  | Poetry | daily dust and feet this day approaching murmurs if a seed falls… then what? the Rabbi this must be the Rabbi help help me please

by Michelle Shelfer | Poetry | Somewhere in the Book of Life it is written: that a girl from Iowa—or is it Moab, or Ohio—and not just any girl, but one from a sleepy village outside Des Moines