Poetry and Writing

What bothers me is how a lawn chair gets left out in the winter, especially the classic Adirondack chair, its classic white paint peeling, its tilted-back back leaning into the night.  By day the chair is sometimes covered with snow, vanishing white on white. My only summer memory is the family smell of absent lumpy pillows.

such care and hunger to get every line out and in–

such expectation.

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