Sometimes,
I catch a glimpse of it
shadowed in a wrinkle of my mother’s aging face
And sometimes I smell it,
in solidifying moonlight of sugary grass and cool soft air
And sometimes I feel it, crawling lightly up my leg while I am waiting
And I hear it, sometimes, too — a sweet distant music of vanishing wind
And it tastes like the sinking sun.
But when I try to hold it,
it only laughs as it blows, twirling past my somber face
and through my pale, casting fingers
then whispering,
“Maybe tomorrow”-
Danielle Hagerty lives in Philadelphia with her identical twin sister whom she loves very much. She graduated from Temple University with a degree in English and currently works at the Chamber of Commerce for Greater Philadelphia. Danielle is obsessed with bread, dogs, and speaking French.