| Poetry |
The Oak Trees On Market St.
I don’t speak with my grandmother
As much as I should
Or want to.
The today’s that tend to roll over
Into each other
Like white crests I see from the beach.
They become yesterday’s
They become regrets.
It rained today, and tomorrow
It is supposed to be overcast.
Until early evening.
That is when, in summertime,
The sun setting, glows
A blood red orange
Through the oak trees
On Market Street.
That is when, in this lifetime,
My regrets are replaced by memories.
That is when we will sit on beaches
Together, watching waves break
Regardless of whether or not
It is raining.
by Parrish Ravelli
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