Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Michael Estabrook   Youth Sometimes as I'm driving and the sun stipples through the hairs on my arms I am taken with my own golden glow and feel somehow younger, virile, more robust, good thing to be now and then, at least until the sun goes down.   beneath the old crab apple tree I wonder was it really necessary for her to cut down all the daisies growing behind the jumbly rock wall beneath the old crab apple tree. “I do it every year when they get so big,” she replied when I asked her about the devastation. “They were all gangly and some of them were dead.” “Yes, I know, but I liked seeing them anyway, a tangle of little white flowers vying for the sun.”   Next Poem
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