Today

By Katie Delgado

I bought peaches at the market

with the blessing of a farmer

willing to sell in smaller bundles.

I carried them in the brown paper bag

not used for lunch.

I carried them through the silence of too many words

and on an adventure without bagpipes.

The first — juicy, medium fuzz,

with a healthy hint of spice —

I ate in the shade of the people’s tree.

The second — not as ripe as I wished, not

as bruised as I expected —

I ate with a cautious tongue

and a diligent hand.

Now, thinking of you,

I find a sweeter fruit.

Though my bag is empty,

eat another peach — grown in Georgia (please

understand), the color of sticky notes — and wonder

at the beauty of chance.

Neither Light of the Sun

By Sarah Schirato

Give me a steadfast reason

To stay in this vain world of day,

As the night of every season

Fades quicker and quicker away.

Woven slender among the posts,

Names etched in black stone.

Fingers to block the light of the host,

Those spheres so very alone.

A whisper near my ear in the darkness;

The birds dare to sing of the sun.

The moving shadow between us;

The lines begin to come undone.

So terribly terribly fragile,

The gossamer grasshopper wing.

That sweet embrace of the last battle,

Bids me silent praise to bring.

Like the grass swaying in the honeyed breeze,

Like the cool, moon-drenched rock,

Give me that land of quiet ease,

Hid behind that gold-wrought lock.