Poetry: ‘Edges, Lows’

Photo Stella Mazurek

I’ve always been partial to late July;

through her sticky fingers, summer seems to slip by

dry grass, dandelions, the smell of pinecones and needles 

feeble on

mornings warm 


nights blue 

who is going to shut the door to the greenhouse?


up carpeted stairs 

I so often stumble on

cooking in the kitchen, noodles on the porch steps;

you’ll be kept, in my memories, as a good house 


it’s sometimes the distance, that makes you 


tank full; of gas

family; at last 

everyone knows, 

it all flies by so fast 

and fast-food fries don’t last 


I’ll summarize what I learned from two types of sunlight 

streaming through windows:

ups, downs,

edges, lows,

forever we are yearning  

I promise; you were learning


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