Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
Saturday starts with silence, slow and soft, sheets still warm from sleeping in.
Summer is the season that forgets to end on time—it lingers at the shore like a guest who loves your house more than you do.
June gives us the longest day and we still waste most of it talking about the weather.
It's not the presents. I know it's not the presents because the best Christmas I ever had was the year we couldn't afford them.
Home is not the address. It's the sound the lock makes when you've been gone too long.
The kettle hisses its slow complaint— ssssssss— like a secret it's been holding since last night.
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