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Photo by Kate Gross-Whitaker


And it’s the boy playing frisbee

with his old man next to me,

And his old man playing too.


It’s the smell of the sweet loaves at night.


The skyrises and skyscrapers

bring partial protection.


And it’s the family and their family picnic

on a Saturday afternoon.

My family and your family too.


The smile of a stranger on the sidewalk

as I walk from the tracks,

And the hope of the uncles gambling with the cold.


The sun and the clouds that cover it

and the moon with its accompanying winds.


The words can only fill so much I tell myself.


It is my daily apple,

lost assortment of pens,

and book that I’ll never finish reading.


My lazy ignorance

or uncanny optimism.




My clover luck,

or surprising faith.


The citric pomelo tea with honey.

There’s a song stuck in my head.

Changing forever with the seasons.