by Lana Hechtman Ayers.
What I left behind was the night sea,
sand cool as glass on my bare feet,
the sweet smell of cedar trees ashore,
a short stroll to the place I called home,
the last room where you still loved me.
Lana Hechtman Ayers
Every Hour.
by Lana Hechtman Ayers. Dawn began with the sight of red lights flashing on numerous trucks crowded by the beach entrance, some emergency that brought out fireman and state police, sheriff and ambulance. And now, as daylight moves toward dusk a doe, ears pitched upright, perhaps by the clacking of my old keyboard, pauses its […]