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The day’s oars dip and lift, time sliding past
silver as droplets fancied up by sunlight.
A girl in dinosaur-patterned boots explores creek rivulets,
releases cattail fluff into chill skies saying, “go grow!”
A boy prods the pond’s ice with a stick, tosses to see
it skitter over the surface, mourns it can’t be retrieved.
Inside a toddler carries blocks in her fist, leaves them
as surprises behind pillow, under chair, behind trunk.
Voices around the breakfast table, at the fireplace,
out in the garage and basement. Dogs tussle, then sleep.
Breakfast dishes washed, table laden anew with lunch,
all of us so accustomed to Sundays together
we don’t imagine it might be our last in however.
What silver drops of now might we savor
more slowly? What old wooden block found
behind the trunk might we cradle in our hands?   


Laura Grace Weldon is the author of poetry collections Blackbird (Grayson Books, 2019) and Tending (Aldrich Press, 2013), and as well as a handbook of alternative education titled Free Range Learning (Hohm Press, 2010). She was named 2019 Ohio Poet of the Year. Her background includes teaching nonviolence workshops, writing collaborative poetry with nursing home residents, and facilitating support groups for abuse survivors. She works as a book editor and teaches community writing classes. Connect with her at

© 2020, Laura Grace Weldon

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