The Last Seagull
My nest is empty; all my friends are gone,
Their faces fading from my memory.
It’s only I who greets the sun at dawn
And watches as it’s swallowed by the sea.
The hapless humans perished from the land;
I saw them turn to dust upon the ground.
I’ll miss their French fries dropped onto the sand,
But not the piles of trash they left around.
We bird folk are the last remaining kind,
The masters of the land and sea and sky.
I fly both near and far, a mate to find.
So far, it’s only me, myself and I.
As mournfully I flit from place to place,
I worry for the future of my race.
The Year Without a Summer
The camp is empty; all the kids are gone,
Their happy cries a distant memory.
The sad, abandoned waterfront at dawn
Affords a sunrise none will ever see.
The boathouse creaks and groans with summer winds
As no one comes to rent the old canoes.
And in the kitchen, corn and beans in tins
Adorn the dusty countertops, unused.
But soon the gates will open once again;
The camp will play its jolly welcome song,
And arms will wrap around beloved friends
Who haven’t seen each other for so long.
No matter how the seasons number, will
The year without a summer echo still.
Laura Plummer is an American writer and poet from Massachusetts. Her work has been featured in numerous print and online publications, including The Sun and Chicken Soup for the Soul. Read more at lauraplummer.me.