Andrea Fisk Rotterman

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First: Andrea
Last: Fisk Rotterman

Andrea's Blogs

Something Sweet
I walk the farm of my childhood in search of the sugar maple. I want to trace the brown bark, slide my fingers down its furrows, roll its needle leaf points between my fingers. Beside me, Belle, my dadís foxhound, holds her noble head high. She catches a scent, shifts into the prairie grass. I wear a light jacket. Itís early April. Forty degrees. Cold north air is losing ground to the surge of warmer southern currents. The sugar maple stands on a ridge alongside the old tobacco barn.
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Bare, Naked (repeat)
Rain falls, dimpling puddles.†I kick off my clogs. My toenails shine like sparkling pumpkin peel. I slide my underwear and jeans down my legs, unsnap my bra, pull my sweatshirt over my head, lay my folded clothes on my shoes.
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