My Cardboard Balcony

Magnetic by Belinda Roddie   When the compass points north, it points to the Northern Lights, aurora borealis hanging in the sky with an open palm that holds up Heaven. And when the sun regurgitates its fumes the Earth spins clockwise and the wheel weaves the   coronal mass  back into the Northern Sky's steady cosmic fingers.  

The artistry of baking a pie was lost on Ricky, but the taste was something he could respect. Still, his wife liked to call the baking process an art. The way the sugar dusted her apron, the smell of cherries in her hair and face, the criss-cross of the crust and the splash of whipped cream. She was Van Gogh, all right.