This post marks my last as Racine’s writer in residence. The past six months have provided a point of connection through poetry, to Racine and to others. The position has also offered me an opportunity to care for my own writing, to give it time and attention.

I sought to use the writer-in-residence designation as an avenue to explore my relationship to Racine. This has proven to be a time of reflection and consideration, of memories, of moments, of intentions.

This past weekend, I found myself at the Family Reunion Music Festival. A cheery environment, spacious and welcoming, with entertainment for all. I read a few poems, listened to others, ate good food and cheers’d. It was a good time, and I found myself taking stock of the goodness going on in Racine.

I have these moments from time to time: walking along Lake Michigan, having a drink outside in downtown, finding myself in a space with live music and a fun crowd, running into someone from my past, as if there’s been no time between us at all.

This week, as a final prompt, I’m encouraging you to write a poem taking note of where the goodness of Racine shines for you. What are the things about Racine that make it feel like home, like a place you want to be? What are your fond memories? What are you hopes? Call it an ode to Racine—a good practice in being grateful for where you are.

Here’s mine:

Ode to Racine

I run into my third grade teacher
at my neighbor’s 70th birthday party.
There with my baby, we chat as if
no time has passed between us,
while of course it has.
I feel keenly aware
of the storefronts still open,
and the ones long gone.
I walk unaware on the same sidewalk
my mother once waited for me
to come around, learning to ride my bike.
Have you been to the top of Lockwood Hill?
Could’ve been a mountain in my youth.
There’s the paper thing pizza crust
and endless summer festivals.
The girl from my high school
takes my blood at the hospital.
Home, making and remaking,
people and places I once knew, still do.
Walking along Lake Michigan, again,
I find sea glass, footprints,
and waves, endless waves.

Thanks for reading and writing along with me through the first half of 2025. I’m thankful for the engagement and conversations these posts have prompted along the way.

My inbox is open at sklblauren@gmail.com, if there are poems from this communal exercise you are hoping to share.

Best,
L.A. Sklba