Would I miss the way a breeze dimples
the butter-colored curtains on Sunday mornings,
or nights gnashed by cicadas and thunderstorms?
The leaning gossip, the half-alive ripple
of sunflowers, sagging eternities of corn
and sorghum, September preaching yellow, yellow
in all directions, the windowsills swelling
with Mason jars, the blue sky bluest borne
through tinted glass above the milled grains?
The dust, the heat, distrusted, the screen door
slapping as the slat-backed porch swing sighs,
the hatch of houseflies, the furlongs of freight trains,
and how they sing this routine, so sure, so sure–
the rote grace of every tempered life?
About the author
Carol Light has sliced and transected the U.S. in station wagons, from Texas to North Dakota, from Tampa to Seattle, and from Port Townsend…Read the full bio
Issue 12 · June 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors