My neighbors are
filling the space
with explosions.
Celebrations of the
4th. I watch the
fireflies rising in
my yard.
My neighbors are
filling the space
with explosions.
Celebrations of the
4th. I watch the
fireflies rising in
my yard.
I watch the fireflies
flicker higher and
higher, the
tree down the street
still catching light
my neighbors celebrate
with explosions. The
cicadas sing through
it all.
My neighbor’s firecrackers
do not shower the sky
with red, white and
blue. They explode
like bombs or guns.
The warm night full of
sounds that take me
back to the war I
wasn’t in. The one
I hope never to have
to run from in
escape.
My neighbors enjoy
explosive celebrations. On
New Years Eve, they
fire guns. Tonight, in
the Georgia heat,
they explode
fireworks.
The drummer looks
so happy as he makes
the drums talk, speaking to
the Kora Back and forth they
play and smile at
each other.
Outside, my neighbors
firecrackers whistle
and explode.
The sky is peach this evening.
The cicadas are singing.
Fireflies glow and
blink.
Earlier, I thought about
an old friend.
This evening, she
stopped by on her
evening walk. I went a ways.
She walked me back.
Red sky at night…
Sometimes a postcard
chooses it’s own
picture.
Sometimes, a
postcard chooses
it’s own
picture.
Sometimes,
a postcard
chooses a picture
on it’s own.
Corn on the cob, new sweet potatoes,
okra, tomatoes, dinner
from the farm.
At dusk, the sun still skims the
tops of the oaks.
Down here in my
yard, fireflies
flicker in the
shadows.
The sun has almost
moved beyond the
tree tops. Fireworks
explode down the
street.
Cars going past and
in the gloom of my
yard at dusk, the
fireflies begin to
flicker. Soon the
cicadas will join
them.
Explosions of fireworks, sun
still touching the tops of the trees.
In my wild yard, fireflies
flicker. Dinner’s done.
Refrigerator waiting to be
cleaned.