Tag Archives: summer

Blitz Poem: Waking to Fingertips

Waking to Fingertips

Asleep at the wheel
Asleep again after waking
Waking all night long
Waking the senses
Senses lush with summer
Senses swaying in the heat
Heat like endless sun
Heat like waves
Waves of sea blue
Waves of spent energy
Energy running
Energy falling down
Down like dark seabed
Down like sinking
Sinking cloud vapor
Sinking into oceans
Oceans wide and blue
Oceans of what we remember
Remember a hand in the night
Remember the light left burning
Burning piles of leaves
Burning junk
Junk we forgot
Junk we carry on our backs
Backs bent
Backs turned against the wind
Wind through tall grass
Wind in the sails
Sails distant
Sails smooth and gliding
Gliding across our lives
Gliding through days
Days we sleep too late
Days we walk through
Through like dreamers
Through like plows
Plows like arguments
Plows like pioneers
Pioneers like our first years
Pioneers like slow trails
Trails marked
Trails familiar
Familiar eyes
Familiar words like bouquets
Bouquets of summer shells
Bouquets of fingertips
Fingertips reading
Fingertips asking

-Copyright Kay Winter

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What wind blew me back here
from where I was
I don’t know
except it was raining there, too.

I came from late June
and the rain had a green edge
that also meant thunder
and lightning that would crack
over the neighbor’s cottonwood trees.

But the place I have come to
is as I remembered.
Autumn, woods,
the wide cold lake
blending into the sky
through the wet black branches.

I am stopped,
dumbstruck on the trail,
by the leaves in a clearing
fallen and aflame
the fire of them burning
the brighter for being wet.

And the wind,
maybe it is the same June wind,
blows the rain through the air
to this clearing.
I stand on muddy earth
in a time-hollowed place
that I will come back to
as I have done.

And my hands are wet,
I think, they are wet.
And it is June again
and the patio chairs must be tipped
against the table before I go inside
to close the upstairs windows.

And can I ask you,
can I,
where are you now?
Do you have such places
that you go to?

And what is the call of now
but an echo through us
that says
and calls back

– Copyright Kay Winter

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Collage Poem: Bend Down All the Flowers


Bend down all the flowers
until your face is up
into the blue spring lilac
barefoot all the summer mornings
until dahlia sundown passage
of zinnias and the last cornflowers
on the table in the hallway
toward autumn
the door left open
for the yellow drift down.
– Copyright Kay Winter

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Plum Summer (Republished)

What did we do, that summer?
Aside from live on plums and canned corn?
We read Dylan Thomas.
You had red shoes.
I had a thrift store bowling jacket, pink and black.
We cut our hair short.
I thought I was in love.
You thought you were heartbroken.
It was all new.

We saw that movie 17 and a half times.
What was it?
The funny one with the dead man and the boat.
One day we fell asleep at the matinee
And missed our bus.

The plums appear every summer
And I try to remember,
As I drop them into the paper bag,
That what we have is less important
Than what we discover.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Reflections of Stars

Some stars shone through that summer window
as I lay, gazing up, awaiting sleep.

I imagined myself
on some remote beach:
Me, the milky way, a dying fire,
the rush and pull of ocean waves.

But I was bound in place.

A tremor, soft within the black space
between the stars, spoke,
“Let us not number the stars,
nor the relections of stars.”

The voice proved wise,
but how could I have known?

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Fly Ball

From the kitchen window, I see the flash of silver
on the back of the waving grasses
at the edge of the drive,
and the deep green shadows of the windbreak cottonwoods
they planted when this house was a farm.
I see what was, or might have been true:
Our passage across that summer.

I remember that hot night, the cherries in the blue bowl,
the mayflies around the streetlight,
the thump of the bass drum from the marching band,
rehearsing five blocks over.
I have finished the dishes, turned off the kitchen light.

I can hear your transitor radio
On the back porch.
“High fly ball,” I hear you repeat,
“Over the fence, into the night.”

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