When Summer Left
I remember
being rocked to sleep
on my grandmother’s lap,
her apron stained
with flour and berries,
the brush of her hand
on my bare feet in summer,
lemonade in a turquoise pitcher.
Her world—my world,
wolves in the purple of night,
fly paper swirling from pitted beams,
flies frozen in flight.
It was sweat and firewood,
wet feet creeping:
snails on the sidewalk
when trees became skeletons
and silence dredged the shadows
and frail as winter’s autumn leaf
summer left her eyes.
About the Poet:
Mishel McCumber is a Canadian-born writer and US resident whose non-fiction has been published internationally and translated into German and Spanish. She is currently finishing her Master’s Degree in English and is newly emerging as a poet.
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