The way I feel sad

about the good,

the alive–

the wet-winged mayfly,

the just-walking child,

the snap of a stem

on a ripening peach–

the way memory

forgets all of this,

even this, beheld in

sunlight, in joy

even us, here–

flecked by


our fingers


–Karen Miller Rauch

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s