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Boston Common at TwilightFrederick Childe HassamOn the day my mother eloped, fled as if if she gave it more thought she’d never do it, left with a small suitcase in my father’s brother’s car, today, July 1, heading toward Boston never supposing what was ahead, even in the summer would be as chilly as the commons in twilight with snow. She will become the woman who turns her back on the man she chose so she couldn’t be even more tempted by the man she could not marry, will reach for her girls instead, two beauties like charms on a bracelet she worries she will lose. Green that will become her favorite color in the last weeks of her life, will be as hard to find as anything growing in the park under the cold. The birds her daughters try to lure closer could be what once flew and filled her, something so full of joie de vivre her college room mates wrote in her year book, and now, though she is wild to have, she can’t touch or keep |
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Issue #20, May, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.