by Heather M. F. Lyke
Computer closed, screens off— I return to the nature that’s been waiting. Saturdays are slower in seclusion. Nowhere to go, I sink down— lean back onto uneven earth warmed by sun. Settling into the ground that holds me, I lace grass between fingers— Breathe at pace with the breeze. Soften my eyes: look up. Lashes blur backlit clouds framed by Ironwood buds—
Heather M. F. Lyke is a writer living in southern Minnesota. By day, she teaches students Creative Writing and American Literature. On evenings and weekends, she creates. She builds things out of nothing: sometimes with paint, occasionally with fabric, but most often with words.