Lemon in my hand has such soft waxen rind,
the smell is citrus, light, acidic, clean.

I am now 8 years old in a world of sand, sucking lemon juice
through a peppermint stick, a grandparent’s treat.

Then, I am Positano, a lemon of such giant size, and my family
together watches rain wash candied terra cotta roofs clean.

Once more, I’m at lunch in a blue room with my great aunt
squeezing a distracted, thin slice into a diet coke.

Always, a small bit of juice finds a crack in the skin and stings.
Tomorrow, we’ll roll the pulp in sugar and have a sweet lick.

untitled (quilts always warm)

you don’t have to remind me of that
orange and brown
soft knit afghan quilt that
matched nothing
in our house
but in theirs —

the olive green
and the hanging plates
and that day
laying on the hardwood waiting

no games, no pick up sticks
only a new jewelry box
and my reliable Alley cat
in a house creaking with grief

gathering stones
in the drain pipe
that felt like a river bank
little sister in hand
knowing more than they knew –
quilts always warm.

fall day at the Woods

smalll bony legs crook’d
over a driveway of shale
“here’s one!!!”
to a fossil, and our cousins

“let’s go!!”
tossed aside, then
scampering off to that place
where rotting wood is our
breakfast – in our fort,
a few saplings
leaned to a trunk, first creep inside
racing fast to the river,
there a high crossing keeps
out intruders and
we eat pockets of winesap
apples, ruddy green
like that one pesky leaf
floating downstream
throw a rock, watch it sink….