Published May 15th, 2025
by Annie Downey
Pine needles, one of my earliest memories is pine needles. Damp, hot, and sticky, clumping together
in the woods surrounding North Central Florida's creeks. Falling in place of fall, carrying
a thick scent of year-round summer. It's a memory I have memories of.
I am five years old and have been dropped into a public playground with trees that mask the sun
as well as oncoming storms. The nearby neighborhood holds '70s style homes which house
long-time residents with a can't-help-it type of weird to them. I am shy – I've been known to
cling to my parents legs now and again, though the condition is not chronic it seems.
I am, however, a crier. I cry when I am tired – I am told often by adults that I am just tired. I cry
when adults make eye contact with me. I cry when I am overwhelmed. I cry when someone
is in pain. I cry when I do not know what to say (I do not know what to say). I cry when I
remember I am still alive and memories are also current and upcoming.
I cry when I look at the life I've built and then the parts that I lost. And I cry when I realize
I do not regret losing them.
About the Poet
Annie Downey resides in Brooklyn, New York, United States.
Read the poet's biography on Annie Downey's Artist Page.
This poem is also featured in Comet #5,
published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in NYC Poetry Magazine:
The Thing About Williamsburg Bridge
by Iva Ticic
NYC Poetry Magazine is part of the Wax Poetry and Art Network.
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- Visit the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
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