Bio Note: Hello, V-V friends. I've been away for a bit after carpal tunnel surgery, but your poems kept me inspired. It's wonderful to be among you again in such good company. I look forward to reading this glorious issue.
When I was small, my grandmother dropped penny candles into blue Mason jars for our tired feet, lit the steep stairs up from the road to the house. At the seam-edge of dark, golden light flumed inside aquamarine glass, fireflies the size of sparrows lighting steps stumbling up to warm beds, to the deep-slumber comfort of grandparents. Here and now, as western nightfalls filigree in cathedral light, summer steals away, all blueberries and honeysuckle. Oh, how I miss the southern accent of frogs, the violet sky so pure I can taste you. A year is nothing, we say, common as oyster shells, but turn it over, run your thumb over the pearl, wash it under the tap, let the salt fall away.
©2022 Lori Howe
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