Catch a Falling Leaf by Todd Matson

Beyzanur K

Catch a Falling Leaf

Dad sat like a potted plant

in his old, threadbare chair

while mom watered dad,

sprinkled him with food.

The little girl went without.

Mom replaced the old chair

with a new one. Dad planted

himself at the kitchen table

for three days, sat in silence.

The little girl went without.

Mom finally replaced the

new chair with the old one.

Dad transplanted himself

back in his old, ragged chair.

The little girl went without.

Hungry, thirsty, and wilting

away amidst the greenhouse

gases she lived in, the little

girl spent her time outside

under the shade of a tree.

In the cool of autumn, she

invented a game. If I catch a

falling leaf, a friend will play

with me. You don’t have to

believe in magic to believe.

The tree released every leaf

on its branches to the little

girl. Just ask her friends,

as many as the leaves she

snatched from the breeze.

© Todd Matson

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Todd Matson

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in North Carolina, United States.  His poetry has been published in Salvation South, Agape Review, San Antonio Review, The Brussels Review, and featured in Poetry for Mental Health.  He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by several contemporary Christian music artists.

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Polishing the Car In October by David Henson

Sergej

Polishing the Car In October 

Back aching,

hand numb

and gooey,

hood and two

fenders yet 

to go,

I stand 

and take 

a break 

-- admire 

the rusty 

leaves. 

© David Henson

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David Henson

David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart prizes and has appeared in various journals, including Feed the Holy and Best Microfictions 2025. His X handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com

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Huntington's Disease by William Ogden Haynes

Kindel Media

Huntington’s Disease

His father passed on something that wasn’t

in his will. No lawyer was needed to clarify

things, just a doctor who said if one parent 

has it, each child has a fifty-percent chance 

of inheriting the gene. And if you inherit it,

you will develop the disease. The doctor is

like a weatherman predicting storm percentages. 

It’s a case of genetics carrying with it both 

history and prophecy, a lineage of doom 

coiled inside a cell, a chromosome with the 

wrong address, an unwanted gift from his 

ancestors. And now he lives with this biological 

time bomb, feeling time is precious, since 

he knows the end of the story before finishing 

the book. But everyone knows the outcome 

of the story because we all die. What’s different 

for him is that genetics has passed down the  importance of savoring every single page. 

© William Ogden Haynes

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William Ogden Haynes

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama, born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry, and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com

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Harvest by Daniel Skach-Mills

Pawan Yadav

Harvest

Crooked bones, crooked branches

Mrs. Yee cares for her persimmon tree 

like family,

works the soil of another year 

with Dao, prayer—

whatever keeps the crepe-paper dragon’s

torn-and-taped accordion vertebrae 

stretching across her window

Centuries, ancestors,

hers is but a blink in the steady gaze of generations,

a brief breath, inhaling petrichor’s instructions:

mulching, loam grows rich,

watering, roots go deep,

pruning, space appears 

between thoughts

Come autumn, fruit plumps—

round Laughing Buddha bellies 

on the branches 

Ash powders the red-and-gold joss pot

burning sandalwood outside her door

Overnight, a FOR SALE sign 

stakes its claim in her yard

Realtors report American home buyers 

want new houses that look old:

mantels, railings, floors 

Contractors complain they can’t find 

enough qualified artisans to carve, 

fire, and paint the thin veneer 

of a hundred years 

into the tile, wood and walls 

of a ninety-day construction job:

a look that’s aged and distressed,

provided, we don’t have to wait too long

Provided, it’s not our faces—

Next door, Mrs.Yee pulls out her ladder,

positions it under the tree, 

climbs rung by rung 

like incense into the air, 

another year behind her, going up in smoke 

Neighbors roll their eyes, shake their heads:

persimmons, three for a dollar at the market! 

The rickety stepladder they’re sure will be her death!

So much to believe in 

that can’t be seen—

solace, shade, 

her husband’s ashes 

buried beneath the branches 

The love that keeps her reaching

to gently squeeze

more than half her lifetime

to feel if it is ripe

© Daniel Skach-Mills

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Daniel Skach-Mills

A 2026 Pushcart Prize nominee, Daniel Skach-Mills’s poetry is forthcoming in The Pensive Journal and Wild Roof Review. His book, The Hut Beneath the Pine: Tea Poems, was a 2012 Oregon Book Award finalist. A former Trappist monk, Daniel lives with his husband in Portland, Oregon, where he served for 15 years as a docent at Lan Su Chinese Garden. He was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer in 2024.

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Rain Haiku by Joshua St. Claire

Ali Ramazan Çiftçi

Rain Haiku

all day rain

now that I no longer know

you

raising their hands

to the rain

skeleton elms

a rain squall extinguishes

the cherry blossoms

                     …petrichor 

alone

in the circumference

of rain 

rain lash

seven pelicans

right into the storm 

scars

rains slashes

the window

storm over the Atlantic rains dissolve the horizon

acute angles

a southern gale blasts long mountain

with rain

bitter tea

sinking down

in all day rain

all there is rain on rain

© Joshua St. Claire

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Joshua St. Claire

Joshua St. Claire is an accountant from a small town in Pennsylvania, working as a financial director for a nonprofit. His haiku and related poetry have been published broadly, including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and Mayfly.

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THE BELLS by Gregg Norman

Nicole Weiser

THE BELLS

Ushered onboard in the heart

Of a deep prairie winter

Almost as cold in the coach

As it is outside in the snow

The conductor gives me a blanket

The cars shuttle and shriek

Through frozen fallow fields

Distant farmyards seem dead

In a dead landscape

I can’t stop shivering.

I try to summon a boy’s courage

And a sense of adventure

I wonder how my parents felt

When they saw me off

Too cold to stand and wave

My white breath clouds

The window fogging over

My view of passing lands

I burn the ball of my hand

Rubbing a circle to see through

I am alone in the long coach

Winter passengers are rare

The train begins to slow

When it approaches the village

I pull my scarf tighter

A classic station house 

With a long platform 

Stands over a row of tiny houses

Squatting in the drifts

By a school and a false-front store

Stooped and hushed and cold

I take one burning breath

Before running inside

To huddle by a pot-belly stove

Radiating welcome warmth

Another hole rubbed

In another window shows

The faraway farm buildings

A dark distant wrinkle

On an endless blue horizon

Soon enough I see a speck

Growing over the snow

As horse and cutter come on

When I can see the steam

From the horse’s hairy nose

I hurry outside to pet him

Then I’m helped up 

By a leather-mittened hand

Greeted with a thin-lipped grin

Above a frosted grizzled chin

I snuggle under a horsehide robe

Backed with heavy flannel

My feet dangle over hot bricks

My grandfather clucks to his beast

And we’re off to the jingle of bells

© Gregg Norman

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Gregg Norman

Gregg Norman lives and writes in a lakeside cottage in Manitoba, Canada, with his wife and a small dog who runs the joint. His poetry has been placed in journals and literary magazines in Canada, the USA, the UK, Australia, Europe, and India. He is a 2024 Best of the Net nominee.

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