Poetry by John Attanas
Back then
after January’s first wallop
I would venture out,
camera clutched
like a family heirloom,
to capture the drifts,
the overwhelmed shrubs,
the laden branches,
bending under the weight
of the watery white powder.
Back then
the cold didn’t
press on my heart,
tear at my cheeks.
I was one
with the silence
of the snow filled streets
certain that morning was
more beautiful than any
that had come before.
Now
I sit on a Florida patio
watching the waves
lap the sand
pull on a sweater
it’s barely 65.
Now
I walk the beach
one mile in each direction
imagine swimming to Portugal
then clean my toes
of sand and muck
before I head back
for lunch,
a nap,
and a half-hearted attempt
to put pen to paper
before the evening news.
John Attanas recently graduated from the MFA program at the City College of New York. He is 63 years old. His poetry has been published in Promethean, Mistake House, The Marbled Sigh, Steam Ticket, The RavensPerch, and Abandoned Mine.
