by Sasha Stone on July 23, 2008
by Elizabeth Spires
Now, in the quietude of evening, the dove comes.
It does not flash its feathers, does not
make a sound, but feeds on what the finches
leave behind. How little it needs.
A few hard seeds. A drop of water.
It is late summer. It is always
late summer here. The air is hot and dry.
Brown leaves lie like hands in the yard.
There is no place to turn. No place to stop.
We are hurried along, pushed farther into our lives.
Moments are vanishing all over the earth
as bombs explode, the victim is hooded,
great populations scatter on endless dust roads.
It is too much. We avert our eyes.
We wait like children for the coming of the dove.
And if I were allowed a question,
one question, of the evening dove
who asks for nothing, whose pleasure
is a few small seeds, whose heart I covet,
I would ask, O what will I become?
by Sasha Stone on March 15, 2008
Now that Oscar season is over I’ve been spending much of my time teaching writing to the children in my daughter’s 4th grade class.¬† My sister has been tirelessly teaching poetry to 3rd, 4th and 5th graders for years now and she lent me her lesson plan.¬† Either way, I subscribe to a daily poetry newsletter, The Writer’s Almanac.¬† Today’s poem was especially pretty:
“San Antonio” by Naomi Shihab Nye
Tonight I lingered over your name,
the delicate assembly of vowels
a voice inside my head.
You were sleeping when I arrived.
I stood by your bed
and watched the sheets rise gently.
I knew what slant of light
would make you turn over.
It was then I felt
the highways slide out of my hands.
I remembered the old men
in the west side café,
dealing dominoes like magical charms.
It was then I knew,
like a woman looking backward,
I could not leave you,
or find anyone I loved more.
