Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

Jim Daniels

Moving to Miami

Autumn — I don't even want to write it here, palm trees stuck green against orange sunset without the glue of childhood. Pennsylvania fall, brown leaves slick with dew. Old friends, our lives twirl us apart. Yes, like falling leaves. Old, we close like shells. Random waves toss us clacking against each other. Wind hisses distant waves of voices through trees. Autumn leaves and the sea — two trite things working their way inside me toward a stiff drink of crushed leaves and seawater, a cure for melancholy. I remember the cry of a bird echoing over a Pennsylvania pond. What was it? The name of a bird already skimming above the water of memory.