In winter, beech leaves to their parents’ generous fingers. They call it marcescence, this refusal to move out of the house and get a
This book is all about leaves. There is no tree. Leaves don’t drop straight but rather slant, wing, skim. They slip as paper
Before dawn, the desert air tastes different, the click of an old analogue clock moves differently, the cross-stitch adorning it rests differently in its