I catch a glimpse of it
shadowed in a wrinkle of my mother’s aging face
And sometimes I smell it,
in solidifying moonlight of sugary grass and cool soft air
And sometimes I feel it, crawling lightly up my leg while I am waiting
And I hear it, sometimes, too — a sweet distant music of vanishing wind
And it tastes like the sinking sun.
But when I try to hold it,
it only laughs as it blows, twirling past my somber face
and through my pale, casting fingers
Danielle Hagerty lives in Philadelphia with her identical twin sister whom she loves very much. She graduated from Temple University with a degree in English and currently works at the Chamber of Commerce for Greater Philadelphia. Danielle is obsessed with bread, dogs, and speaking French.