An international publication dedicated to all arts and cultures

Your Subtitle text

Layne Russell   Contributor -- California

all photos on this page by Layne Russell



After you drive away,

black car curling through

white snow banks and giant firs,

we wave, arms extended,

yours stretched out the window

till you round the last curve.


Honks echo down.

Motor dissolves into trees.


I stand in the road

in silence;

bare aspen and dark firs

reach into coming night.


Boots crunch through snow

on the trail to the house.

Across deepening sky

a hawk calls.


On wood stairs

I stomp off snow, pause,

look out at the silver meadow,

the icy pond,

the darkening ridge.


Inside, I take off my jacket,

hang it on its hook.

My eye catches and holds

the hook nearby,

shining gold and empty.



© 2000 Leslye Layne Russell



Tonight a Christmas cactus flower

opened. It was still a plump fuchsia bud

just hours earlier, the only bud. But now

as I lean to switch off the copper lamp,

the bloom takes me off guard, pulls me

into its well of shimmering color as its

bold beauty hangs against a warm yellow

wall. I immediately think of you telling

me of your dreams. Oh, this night

so full of surprise. Now what do I do


with this? The flower of the dreams.

Why do my hands shake? Did we meet

when we dreamed? There is so much

that cannot be asked, more that cannot be

answered. How slowly do we open? You

cannot hold a cactus bud back; it's got to

fling itself open sooner or later, you know.

Even midst a January storm of cold, spinning

rain and wind, it just has to become itself,

has to declare its fuchsia glory.



© 1/19/2010 Layne Russell

all copyrights belong to Layne Russell
Website Builder