The aloe plant sits upon the counter,
its once plump, vibrantly green leaves
full of healing salve
now turned brown and flat
We could walk along the shore,
feel the sand squish between our toes
as the waves lap at our ankles,
gazing out at the mid blue waters
and the light blue sky,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.
Here are my posts from the past week:
I am a summertime poet;
I cannot wax lyrical about the bare branches
or frosty earth.
When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother what would I be.
She responded that I would be easy going,
and so I tried to be easy going–
Here are all of the poems that I have posted on all my platforms over the past week.
Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.
The first full week of National Poetry Month is coming to a close, and, just like on Sunday of last week, I wanted to collect everything I posted from the past week in a single place.
Welcome to The Yellow Brick Ave! We are now 100 steps down the road!
I write a version of the same poem everyday.
It pours from my lips in a whispered breath
and stays stagnant,
its letters etched upon the air.