One-Line Memoirs by Miriam Sagan

The past was not the past I would have chosen had I the words to say it

Spanish gypsies favor polka dots and so do I

A year ago my father was alive but I can’t say if that was better or worse

One leaf falls seemingly out of nowhere

You point out the woodpecker but it has flown before I see it

The ripples of the pond move in one direction—that’s called the wind

it’s a pleasure, the blank page, increasingly sensuous as I grow old in the mirror

I’m walking before moonrise away from the holiday chitchat and one upsmanship and wondering what language the word “gazebo” comes into English from.

Readers–send me some?

One thought on “One-Line Memoirs by Miriam Sagan

  1. Ten feet below sea-level in New Orleans to seven thousand feet in Santa Fe, now I sit with my feet up and read by the fire.

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