Cheryl Caesar

Watermelon rind forgotten

in the grass for the ants.

Streetlights come on

and shadows move behind shaded windows.

Music from a car window

far away and going somewhere.

Spring is promise, but summer’s fullness

holds the seeds of its own dissolution.

Like dandelions that have turned

to ghosts and will soon fly away.

Like the drop hanging from the spigot, swelling

and waiting to shatter.



Cheryl Caesar lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. She gives readings locally and publishes poetry in the U.S and abroad. When it’s all too much, she escapes in books, cats and Michigan lakes, and dreams of a saltwater infinity pool she once knew in Palermo.

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