Lenore Weiss

My first garden grew on the fire escape outside our apartment in the Bronx. Whatever was green usually grew between the cracks of the pavement.  But every spring, my elementary school

Pear trees at the outer edge of the parking lot bloomed in faux-snow, the way they did every year on the California delta. I grabbed a handful of snacks, poked

He’d ignored his doctor’s warnings, the diet, the exercise, everything to ease back from a diagnosis of congestive heart failure.  Not exactly come back, as I understood it, there was no

Cleo found a terraced garden at the back of Jensen’s store. She entered through a rickety gate, and placed my cage beneath the shade of a tree. Along the fence

It was the end of August. Jennifer lived with her 12-year-old daughter. Her husband stayed on the other side of the city in a house that used to be theirs,

“Bwaeek!” I beat my wings and tried to fly, but a man threw a cloth bag over my head.   I recognized Jensen’s gravelly voice. “Stop there right there, Ronstone.”  “You