Mickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees
by Ron Wallace
As October descends
like a feathering of dust
in an empty room,
the color of fireflies fades
from my summer nights
beneath a moon, alabaster white.
This cooling of air
this shortening of the sun
has always bothered me.
I remember being twelve,
sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree
grown to the fence
next to the house
where my grandmother lived
before she didn’t.
Rubbing neatsfoot oil
into the laces,
the palm and pocket
of my Rawlings glove,
I pretended to hear country music,
dThe Golden Gate
by D. L. Lang
From her steel that traveled from Pennsylvania
to the people who voted to fund her construction,
she stands as a testament to cooperation—
what we might yet build from imagination.
But the glory goes to those brave workers
who dared build the impossible bridge.
Day and night they labored for four years.
They risked plummeting into dark waters
so that generations might easier cross her
silvery, glistening waves to this very day.
She is the great steel handshake
uniting the people of this regiMickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees
by Ron Wallace
As October descends
like a feathering of dust
in an empty room,
the color of fireflies fades
from my summer nights
beneath a moon, alabaster white.
This cooling of air
this shortening of the sun
has always bothered me.
I remember being twelve,
sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree
grown to the fence
next to the house
where my grandmother lived
before she didn’t.
Rubbing neatsfoot oil
into the laces,
the palm and pocket
of my Rawlings glove,
I pretended to hear country music,
dThe Golden Gate
by D. L. Lang
From her steel that traveled from Pennsylvania
to the people who voted to fund her construction,
she stands as a testament to cooperation—
what we might yet build from imagination.
But the glory goes to those brave workers
who dared build the impossible bridge.
Day and night they labored for four years.
They risked plummeting into dark waters
so that generations might easier cross her
silvery, glistening waves to this very day.
She is the great steel handshake
uniting the people of this regiMickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees
by Ron Wallace
As October descends
like a feathering of dust
in an empty room,
the color of fireflies fades
from my summer nights
beneath a moon, alabaster white.
This cooling of air
this shortening of the sun
has always bothered me.
I remember being twelve,
sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree
grown to the fence
next to the house
where my grandmother lived
before she didn’t.
Rubbing neatsfoot oil
into the laces,
the palm and pocket
of my Rawlings glove,
I pretended to hear country music,
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