Friday September 20 Still Beautiful

We will leave on Sunday

return to another life

orange room not yellow and

people will make sounds not frogs

or birds ┬ásounds of stories if we’re lucky

sounds of what it’s like to live

in a place so big you never run out of streets

you haven’t been you can take the subway

all your life get off on a different stop

I still love it there but I will miss

this quiet this porch this September Friday

right here.


Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.


  1. Yes! I love your observations and how quickly you put one/me in the place you are. I love the porch, the birds, the rocking chair? And I also understand the love of familiar community, if sometimes too noisy. Ah, the birds! May we change our ways and invite them back. No silent spring, please.

  2. Love this poem. All of us that have had the sad and dear privilege to leave a summer place understand the sweet sorrow of leaving summer homes. In the Straits of Mackinac nature would blow us off the Island if we didn’t leave soon enough. A chilled darkness in a summer-wonder place is a good reminder to cherish the green warmth we have. I love it that you write of the endless streets there are to explore in NYC. Your arrival home is mine. I appreciate deeply your running dialogue with those of the City and the City itself. Your eyes are my eyes there. Thanks, Esther.

  3. Has anyone ever taken the subway and gotten off at all the stops? It would make a great book. It would take ages. When I was in Moscow I spent a day travelling the Moscow subway, getting off at every stop which looks like museum, going up to see the neighborhood, then down again to continue on the route.
    Then again, there is poor old Charley, who may ride forever and never get off, but that’s Boston. .

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