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  • Sonya Leigh Anderson

Poetry from a Sunday Afternoon

Updated: May 25, 2022


This is something I want to remember. Yesterday’s baby

suddenly turned toddler. Chubby fingers curl and unfurl

in unmistakable gesture. Insisting, “Nana, come.”


The winds can be wild here at our lake. Frigid wail,

enough to make us crazy. Even inside,

chimney flapping and somewhere a gap gives way

to whistle and whine. I am wrapped in some

soft fur. A gift from my sister. Listening. And looking

out all these windows. Once we were

away from home when an oak broke and fell for no

apparent reason. Our son spotted it first and

questioned what had happened. And now I look

and wonder—how many others hold secret cracks

but stand? Red oak leaves hold tight to

branches. You’d think this autumn gale would

be enough to take them. But there they cling while

the whole world rings and dances and my dog and

I enjoy our leisure. Supported by floors lined with

oaks someone cut and my husband dried.

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