INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Alan Britt
Lisa Schmidt
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NURTURE VERSUS NATURE The sky crumbles inward, darkness the Braille message in heavy tufts while he states the obvious: I think you should come inside. I kneel among flat shadows as they knit the ground in bruises, sift my fingers through the earth, plucking small weeds from lines of tender leaves; a droplet plops on the back of my hand. You're going to get soaked: he warns in a rumble. I cringe, wonder how we became complicated; why a little more rain would matter to cutworms or the sharp stones I've discovered in broken soil. The storm begins to batter the plants. I watch them flinch, each flower bowing its head to the furious deluge. Drop after drop; down, harder now with no promise of ever stopping. Then he says: Go on. They'll be fine even though I'm not so sure. I remember my suitcase hidden under the spare tire and wish I could take my garden. Kim Keith, Phoenix, Arizona
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