By Maddie Willigar | Assistant Editor
After Aron Wiesenfeld’s “Greenhouse”
I remember standing here like an angel clothed in baby’s
breath: damp hair blowing in the wind by the greenhouse where
there was nothing left but buds and dew, no remanence but the
faint scent of you passing through like the wind softly
kisses the grass and leaves not a trace of itself behind.
I watched the buds struggle to bloom in their cage and
reach towards dim light. But what more could a mother
do except watch them grow only to know they would