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Twelve Stories

I learned
not to ask
about the ducks
that had walked
single file
on her first
child's sweater.
Each time my grandmother
brought out her notions,
she had a dozen stories to tell
about the leaves, and stars, and pearls.
My favorites were the flowers
trapped in clear plastic.
They had blossomed
on the dress my mother wore
the night she met my father.

Now I have a bowl filled
with shells and sea glass.
My granddaughter and I sit
twelve stories from the sand.
In the four o'clock light,
I see that nothing else matters
but her eyes, the color
of blue-green sea glass
and the shells we have saved
from the sweep of the waves.


words: Patricia La Barbera, Florida (homepage)
original publication: Twelve Stories / Flutter

image: Swati Nair, India (birdysworld)
original publication: a new day / Foliate Oak


another sweep of the waves: Washed Out (#21)


BluePrintReview - issue 22 - re /visit /cycle /turn