every morning seems to be a small infinity
childhood summers
exist in my mind
as blurred nostolgia–
stepping out into the morning
and letting the air,
heavy with dew, fill
my body. my grandmother
and i would sit on her
porch, our hands wrapped
around mugs of coffee
and i’d lean my head
against her arm. after a bowl
of cereal, i’d nap under the quilts
of her bed. only the mornings
hold this poignancy,
everything else seems
to have the same
finiteness as the now.
Hunter, you’re an extraordinary poet. And that’s an extraordinary grandmother you have good memories of.
Thank you for this beautiful poem. I love the delicate and clearly heartfelt nature of it, how you talk about memory indirectly and skillfully, and the form you employed.
Thankful for grandmothers.
The title is absolutely a poem in itself! This is just a wonderful reflection with a killer ending.
Oh, Hunter. This is fantastic. I love the reflection on people and moments that shape us. The title and the ending will both stay with me. Beautiful.