Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
Summer Of The Grandmothers
They come back in their white
shifts, their ruffled shawls of salt
white, the way the dead always return
when you need them the most—
when it's too hot to do anything
but picture the worst—the Bomb
finally fallen, the world burned-up,
the entire planet radioactive—
when you are too weak to do anything
but lie in a stupor and call them back
to drift at your side, in eyelet dresses
of old starlight, fresh-faced and cold.
Anonymous submission.
poem
by
Susan Kelly-DeWitt
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black