Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Two Nov-Dec 2026.
Remembering the Seasons, poems by Peter A Witt.
Beach Findings
The beach is bejeweled with driftwood,
left at high tide or deposited
by winter storm waves.
The wood is of many shapes,
one piece a child laying on its back,
arms flailing the air, another
a turtle, feet extended, trying
to make its way back into the sea.
I choose a few pieces
that will make fine sculptures
once they are dried out, shaped, stained,
and exhibited in my living room art gallery.
Friends drift around the room,
looking at each piece on display,
some ask where I got such beautiful things,
I reply, from the beach,
as they ooh and aah their appreciation.
Remembering the Seasons
I remember a spring day
basking in more warmth than cool,
when the twitter of an orange-crowned warbler
announced that spring migrants were heading north.
I remember when that spring was overrun
by the sudden heat of summer,
arriving far too early in Texas
for one raised in the slow, soft seasons
of the Midwest. Air conditioning ran all day,
and the dog no longer cared to lie on his back
in the sun-scalded yard.
I remember when early summer turned
to the ferocious weight of July and August,
heat strong enough to fry an egg
on sunlit sidewalks. Then,
around the third home football game,
breezes hinted at autumn,
and a light jacket was welcomed
by the fourth quarter.
Soon the leaves exhausted their palette,
leaving the trees naked,
and the wind shifted north,
sending the six o’clock meteorologist
to warn us to cover our plants
before the overnight freeze.
And then I remember the dark months,
when nights stretched long,
blankets were pulled to our chins,
and steaming mugs of tea and cocoa
replaced Dr Pepper and iced tea.
It won’t be long now
before the wheel turns again,
and I must laugh at myself
forever complaining about the weather.
Journey of an Apple Pie
She made me yesterday
after coming home from the grocery store
with honeycrisp apples, flour,
a lemon, and a dozen eggs.
She already had the sugar and cinnamon,
along with the needed butter.
When all was mixed, she put me in a pan,
and baked me, like a child sitting in the summer sun,
for forty-five excruciating minutes,
after which I cooled sitting on a rack
as I exuded a smell that filled
the house with anticipation.
All was well, it felt good to reach room temperature,
to feel whole, wanted, for some, even needed.
But then came the moment I didn’t expect,
as a knife was drawn from a kitchen drawer
and deep cuts were made through my topping,
the apples, and my crust. It hurt beyond belief.
And the worst was yet to come,
as parts of me were lifted onto plates,
passed among a family of smiles,
and eaten bite by bite
with accompanying oohs and aahs.
So now I am disintegrating
in everyone’s digestive tract,
no more a pie, just a memory.
© Peter A Witt
Peter A Witt is a Texas poet and a retired university professor. Peter’s poetry deals with personal experiences, both real and imagined. He is a twice published Best of the Net nominee. His poetry has been published on various sites including Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Medusa’s Kitchen, Active Muse, New Verse News, and Blue Bird Word. When not writing poetry, Peter is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.