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Our Hose


The rusted hose

drips a melody,


tap-tap-tap onto our patio.

It groans, withering,


devoid of playmates who

indent its spigot with paled fingernails,


with lusty shrieks permeating

its air. How it yearns


for our careless fingertips,

to spray and stoop,


a secretive language known

only through shadowed promises.


Yet for all its mourning,

it remains – like a luminary,


or the North Star, indelible against its

hazy shroud,


a chain-link, prosaic yet ethereal,

an amber stone preserving


its own alluring childhood –

the one I shared.

Ayesha Asad is a writer and college freshman with an eclectic variety of interests that include painting, reading, and singing. She lives in Texas, writes for her college newspaper, and hosts a radio news show. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Blue Marble Review, TeenInk, and Skipping Stones magazine.

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