23185, Early July


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Grad Student. Poet in progress, occasional cook, part time procrastinator, full time daughter, granddaughter and friend  [+]

Image of Fall 2020
Image of Poetry
I touch my hand to the grass and it comes away wet so
I am unable to sit down.
How my hand has touched so many places like this,
places I am unable to inhabit but have grown to love
despite my best efforts.
A pair of squirrels languidly follow each other to a tree.
It is starting to rain, but the tree cover is impenetrable.
How I wish you were here with me,
watching the squirrels’ tails dampen with the rain water.
As I sit here, I consider the curls that stick to the nape of your neck.
123

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