I love old postcards. There’s a frequent charm in their saturated colours and naive banality. Of course, some folks buy postcards not to send but to keep as travel mementos. The more dedicated might add a brief note on the back. This is a poem inspired by one of those notes written 52 years ago.
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published
<postcard note>
The motel where I
picked all the
apricots when Bill
Mom and I were on our
way to Saskatchewan
July 1974
<poem>
not all the apricots of course
not the whole orchard
some eleven trees full
not even one tree full
just all that would fill
my little basket
all I could carry
eat and share
all I would need—to
remember picking them all
and where
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