Wednesday, May 23, 2012


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Festival
By Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld

for Erin

This is gray. Mist where the sea meets sky, overcast, the day tangled in wind where your yellow hair is blown, twists in the mind. No sun. Yet the day was racing on, the markers bobbing orange on the surge, the oarsmen struggled toward win or place. We paced ourselves to the end of the pier, taking our time where you patted the back of a tiny shark that didn't bite; we talked to a boy who made one silver fish rise at the end of his line. Later we stopped for tea and toast you said you didn't want, then said you didn't care. You ate a lot. Sweet on roof of the mouth with the sweetness of olives and wheat, smooth on the tongue, this withered day turns in the wind of your yellow hair, gold in the mind where the sands run down. And not to care is young.


This poem previously appeared in the Magee Park Poets Anthology.

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