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when everyday was Summer

 

 

 

 

 
we counted straws:
long ones and short, some ragged,
 
others sly,
 
and, each time, fingers whispered-
"no ... you are not the needle
either."
 
when summer smelled of apricot,
round
though lacking symmetry,
 
nothing tasted as real as it would feel;
it was all just a concept, an abstract thought,
a dream immortal.
 
we were gods back then, with forever
clutched in open palms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a list

A contest entry

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Comments

1 - 8 of 8

  • Never Fall in Love gold member
    June 15
    Edit | Reply
    I think this was amazing to put it in short form


  • Faithbound gold member
    June 12
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    You never cease to amaze me. :f


  • apples fell gold member
    June 11

    Edit | Reply

    Nothing to critique. You can slap me later for being so blah. I just sort of got lost in your poem and really enjoyed the nature of the edges. How it all sort of flows into each line. That ending is wrapped in quietness. Sometimes poetry is our blood poured upon our sagging bones. Stunning work kate.

    ;


  • Suzanne Dia gold member
    June 11

    Edit | Reply




    Every day is summer if only you are willing to find it.

    This is beautiful.




  • transcendental baby gold member
    June 11
    Edit | Reply
    I wish it was always summer (sigh)


  • Naridill
    June 11

    Edit | Reply
    Kind of like broken nails when stapled back together. Very beautiful and enriched with emotions and imagery.

1 - 8 of 8