DOGWOOD New leaves pearl toward yellow lamplight. They grew when my eye was away. *** My tears mist rose-colored dusk that catches leaf-edge and burns. The leaf is a red that stains and never leaves— a light upon a closed eye. What could pierce me more. Transfixed alone, fingers bleeding from the parchment-edge where she struck her revelations, she sees his face in a nimbus of fire and cannot touch it— only look, as the light remains, for the moment. A leaf pressed between pages. *** I settle into the old path and remember its grooves, where the dogwood faded to pink in summer. Now, it doesn’t bloom, but waits at the street’s end, suspended in amber just before the fall. In rusting light, I see it differently each time I follow the bend. My steps follow what they know.
Hannah Hinsch is a Seattle-based writer who graduated summa cum laude from Seattle Pacific University with a degree in English Literature and fiction. She was the editorial intern at Image journal, a leading quarterly that joins art and faith, for two years. Hannah writes across genres, and finds her impetus among Greek mythology, the Old and New Testament, and in the green, salt-soaked Pacific Northwest. Hannah not only sees writing as an exercise in aesthetics and attentiveness, she leans into writing as a way of knowing, a hermeneutic of God.