Featured Poem


Sharon Scholl

Boxes of them.

small plastic pieces of the past

images without identity save

the scrawl of year and trip.

What were we doing there? we

mutter, gawking at landscapes.

Who is that? we laugh.

We see ourselves as others saw us

in lives once frozen to a time now

deconstructed, reassembled,

forever made and unmade.

Our images preserved like summer fruit

stowed for later consumption.

Facsimiles with vague resemblance to

our present selves.

A projector bulb springs to life

and we are splayed upon a wall,

full color proof of life once spent

in a flicker of days long forgotten.

Published in Coneflower Cafe, Spring 2021