Tuesday, December 15, 2015



Smiling Carmella finds the hard place in the middle of the garden, taps the keystone with the nail of her finger, calls me to her side.

She brings me questions wrapped in brown-bag book jackets, counting the days on her knuckles until wherefore turns into why and fires roots into the loam.

When the lightning bugs come, you’ll need solid shoes to trod the corn rows, mayonnaise jar in your hands, roll of string in the pocket of your jeans.

Goodbye, Carmella. Greet the morning side of the lake for me. Ice blue eyes, one oar at your back and singing always singing.

Notes: I know some people don't believe in this, but Carmella is completely a child of my imagination. The lightning bugs, however, are from my Uncle Mike's farm in Indiana. What a silly, destructive thing, caging innocent insects for our entertainment.

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