By Lyn Lifshin Pale salmon light, 9 degrees. Floor tiles icy. Past branches the beaver’s gnawed at the small hole the heron waits, deep in the water. Sky goes apricot, tangerine, rose. Suddenly, a dive, then the heron with sun squirming in his mouth, a carp that looks a third as …
Tag: Lyn Lifshin
Poem: My Sister wants Me to Come and Read through Thirty Years of Diaries
By Lyn Lifshin in the house overlooking rainbent pines, in the life others would envy she loses her self in fragments. How could we have changed so she asks over the phone. How could I not still be eleven in front of the old Plymouth on Main street, Mother Younger there than I am …