Literary Vegan

A swish of a tail and a trail of sherbert stars lifts from your palms; moon-wings, robins and bees play on glitter streams woven into the dark — you dust our thoughts, sweetening the forest with pastel paws and pumpkins.  For Laura Ellen Anderson  LJ Ireton, 2026

Write into the silence — we find ourselves through paper mirrors.  LJ Ireton, 2026

I saw the whole underbelly of the red kite from my window heading home taking the roof off mine. LJ Ireton, 2026

Before bombs, the butterflies rose hundreds, like dust motes. Before the saints, wings of iris, teal, tiger  made the stains in the born light — arched by the arms of the trees, insect veins the soldering marks of glass.  Before we could break things, windows flew. LJ Ireton, 2026.

The blossom is here, defrosting minds in puffs but the sky, its breath, can't decide how it wants us to feel. Or else the tease  is the season — equidistant from chilled solitary unchange, snow-bandaged thoughts  and fever-still grass, hearing messages of the future  on forked feet. LJ Ireton, 2026

There is nothing new under the sun. Even death has been done before, in vinegar thorns and mourning for the confused. All that we don't know, He knew — stepping through Hades barefoot to become shepherd of the unshadow. What you think can't be held, He holds — loneliness turned to stone  when He joined hands  of the impossible. LJ Ireton