• Home
  • Shorts
  • Poetry
  • Moments
  • Me

Jennifer Vano

  • Home
  • Shorts
  • Poetry
  • Moments
  • Me

The smell of newly cut grass, mowed over, patted down in stripes;
the smell of a sharpened saw blade buzzing through wood, wood burning,
splintering, falling to the ground too fast, in pieces too many to count;
the smell of sawdust, so thick in the nostrils it’s like corn starch on the tongue,
tomatoes and dirt;
new grass;
lilacs:

Summer as a child; or: grandpa.



Monday 04.15.19
Posted by Jennifer Vano
Newer / Older

Powered by Squarespace.