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I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky, about the glossy
covers of biographies, about the tortuous tale
of an ant city under a scarred sidewalk, about two
lazy landscapers blowing leaves into a neighbor’s yard,
about falling in half-love with someone else’s youth,
about gobbling pie without a fork, about the barbs
of terrible hedges, about the anxiety of gifts, about my feet,
about the murmur of a radio, about leftovers congealing
in a pan, about oxen, about the loneliness of husking sweet
corn under the stars, about this sad white ceiling.
But maybe I don’t need to bother inventing.
Maybe you’ve already imagined this ending.
Copyright 2020 Dawn Potter
Dawn Potter’s many books include Chestnut Ridge (Deer Brook Editions, 2019). She directs the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching, held each summer at Robert Frost’s home in Franconia, New Hampshire.