May You Revisit this Memory Often

Your grandfather’s legs your foundation,
forget the white plastic chair holding you both.

Poolside, tops of palm trees seize the breeze
and fronds fill your eyes in a protective dance.

Your legs meld into his, even with the beach towel
damp between you. Your back

leans into his breathing chest, breath
that does not need to form words when

given over to love long ago, at your birth,
the world became yours.

All is confirmed again when you both catch
the red flash of the flycatcher’s underbelly.

Your grandfather’s large hand in view,
and he whispers: Look!

 

About the Author

Yvonne Leach earned her Bachelor of Arts in English from Washington State University and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Poetry from Eastern Washington University. Over the years, She has been published in literary magazines and anthologies in the United States. Her work has appeared in Cimarron Review, Clare Literary Magazine, Crack the Spine, Fogged Clarity, Former People, Ramingo’s Porch, Reed Magazine, Rocky Mountain Revival, South Carolina Review, South Dakota Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Suisun Valley Review, and Wisconsin Review, among others. Her first collection of poems, Another Autumn, was published in 2014 by WordTech Editions.