Welcome a week of poetry beginning today at Sunlight.


by Laura Grace Weldon

Signs & Portents  

That my socks have identical holes
surely bodes well for
a day of pleasing symmetry
and unexpected openings.

That my social media feed shows
a lost dog found, gray muzzle soft
against his person’s knee, surely says
comfort awaits the sorrowful.

That rain shimmies down my car window,
turning traffic into impressionistic art
surely means beauty inhabits
everything we see.

That the next song on shuffle is one I adore
frees me to silently say you are loved
to every passing stranger. If people can hate
for no reason, we can love for no reason too.



I roll dough into rounds,
spoon mushrooms, garlic, spinach
in the center. Add provolone. Fold,
seal with fingerprint pinches.
Maybe I jam them too full,
the way I do my calendar,
believing overstuffed weeks
won’t burst apart.
They do.

So do the calzones.
One bubbles at its seam
like cartoon lips offering a smooch,
cheese from another
tries to ooze from the pan.
I wish my weeks were as easily
dished up, unsightly but nourishing
with homemade sauce
and a salad picked five minutes ago.


Art by Steve Johnson on Instagram @artbystevej.