Black and White
In an old photograph
Of the first Halloween
That I can remember,
I stand as a clown
Next to my sister, a witch,
Who later says way too soon
While sitting in my room
And coloring with my crayons,
“There is no Santa.”
I recall running to the kitchen
And asking Mama for the truth.
Late each and every year
As the days grow cold and short,
I still long for a lie.
by Jane Blanchard, first published in The Stony Thursday Book.
Editor’s Note: Sometimes you don’t know where a poem is going until the very last line.
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