Pastimes

April 19, 2018 Anna Rohl

To knit is to remember 'good old days,'

grandmothers crafting bright afghans, a maze

of soft, warm squares.

Shattered

I was a cracked mirror

that Death punched until

the glass shattered

My floor was a map

and the only light on was the slow burning yellow of my closet,

illuminating the crisp outlines of the continents.

Two girls, united by their age, dissected birth and right,

one raised in dirt, and one in cul-de-sac.

Assuring smiles tell me it’s alright.

each step

each breeze

begets contrived eternity

Heavy, hard, black, and twisted

are the pain and sorrow in this life.

All cannot possibly be sifted,

O Lord come and end the sting of strife.

We learn the solar system like it’s on a plane:

flat, horizontal, beyond but not below,

Andromeda due west, Alpha Centauri east,

Helios running bowling ball sunshine down the alley to Pluto and Quaoar, Sedna and Haumea,

all knocked out of the game out of technicality

I feel it most when I watch the burning flames

of fire climb the stubborn branches, up

the pines while golden beams illuminate

the sky – a bitter union, flame and sun.

"But what if the fine art of reading poetry isn’t so fine after all?"