The Once Invisible Garden

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Under the Harvest Moon
 
   Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

   Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

—Carl Sandburg

✨ This poem is in honor of our August theme: Gardens & Gates

Public domain. Photo by Raghu Ghanapuram, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.

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Give Me One Good Thing

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Two Moccasins Tied Together

Lakeside Chautauqua, Ohio

The first time I heard your cry
outside, I was struck by its
smallness: how it hardly

seemed to reach the twin
Catalpas in our front yard,
shedding their green pods;

how it landed so softly
on the world. Inside the house,
it filled our small rooms, filled

my whole body with your sound;
like when I breathed in your smell,
and it was morning sun and wheat

fields, everywhere. That summer
at the lake we watched the rough
grey waters, thick haze, clustered

gulls. It was what I craved,
I’ll admit: to feel small beside
you, to be held by the world

just as I held you.

—Emily Patterson

✨ This poem is offered in honor of our July theme: Lakes & Lagoons

From So Much Tending Remains, Kelsay Books, © Copyright 2022. Used by permission of the poet. Photo by beyza yurtkuran, Unsplash license.

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Evening Prayers for the Fearful [excerpt]

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Pink

The grain of cherry wood
and fresh split cedar, the chest
of sweaters in a brisk winter.
Instant notice: ringlet
flower girl, satin ribbon
to bell the cat, her damp tongue
lapping a pinch of salmon.
Pink mocks the waiting: the weave
of the bassinet in dim light,
wild roses climbing the porch.
Pink hops the sidewalk
on one foot, never lights
long: frivolous impulse, last
swirl of icing in the beater bowl,
creamy resolve, sweet bliss.
We cannot hold pink still.
The sky rolls down like an old
desk, mittens shrink, the tiny
hand that wraps a finger
finally closes the cushioned box.

—Carol Barrett

From The Color Wheel, Terrapin Books, Copyright © 2026. Used by permission of the publisher. Photo by Kien Do, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.

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On the Way to Lake Bolsena

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The Land of Childhood

Hickory Run, The Pocono Mountains

We would wake early to pack the picnic,
dump the ice in the red metal cooler,
stack the bowls of cold food our mom had fixed—
pull the baked ziti hot from the oven,
bag sweet sausages wrapped in butcher paper
from Sperazza’s store. We were Italians
and loved July 4th like Americans.
The Pontiac loaded with lunch and children,
my father would drive the backcountry roads
to the distant mountains, the spring-fed lake
where we’d swim all day till our arms & legs ached,
till our lips turned blue from the biting cold.
The day would not end. We would never be old.

—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

✨ This poem is offered for our July theme: Lakes & Lagoons

From The View from Childhood: New & Selected Poems, Paraclete Press, Copyright © 2026. Used by permission of the publisher. Photo by Stephen Crane, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.

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