Some days I am Ana’s teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning, we look through her kitchen window,
the one she can’t get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home.
Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it’s better to forget what you used to know…

2 Comments

  1. Cathy says:

    I find this poem to be a very lonely poem. The last stanze, each line has a lonely end to it.. I truly like the way it feels.. I love poems that fee..

  2. Adrianna says:

    I think this peom is very well written and very expressive.

Leave a Reply to Adrianna Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *