Oh, the optimism of a paperweight for an open-window morning
with breezes lifting pages of script.
In the stillness of air-conditioning, I no longer need such a doodad
but keep—out of longing for what summer ought to be—
the bauble of orange-white blossoms that once affirmed
my status as a real writer with papers drifting away.
I would have collected a dozen of those flower-bud bubbles
as ballast for ideas that barely stayed—
how wondrous are blobs of melted mineral
rolled and tugged from a glassblower’s stick like lava-hot honey
to create a starfish, a sprig of seaweed, a bed of coral,
an octopus with suckers opening, a blooming anemone,
an ancient memory of life deep in the ocean
where colors glow in a saline cave.
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Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Rattle, ONE ART, Valparaiso, SWWIM, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
© 2025, Sarah Carleton
Halfway Down the Stairs 