Calendar: Cento for Naomi Shihab Nye
Somewhere on another street under the swollen orange moon time holds us in its pocket that once held chocolate eggs, a purple ribbon or a pill that cost 3 dollars.
I’m glad history isn’t totally lost. One day soon it will stumble up the walk and knock. I live in teaspoon, bucket, river, pain, the librarian careful with her shelves and everyone who had ever been there.
Where is the spine of a summer? You could try a pebble, a miniature box. What does that do to a scrap or cell of talk you barely remember, that frog song wanting nothing but echo?