by Lauren Scott I feel old and witheredlike a dying rock rose.Cracks propagatedown my stucco exteriorlike fault lines in the earth.Does an outburst lie on the horizon? I remember when vibrant pink,like a fuchsia feather boa,would invite strangers in –strangers who became friends. My mood has a mind of its own.When the sky opens,tears stream down… Leer más The Old Pink Restaurant
