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Amy Zamkoff
Poet
I wrote my first poem when I was five years old. It was rhymed—no surprise. As the years built, poetry provided a safe harbor, a place to capture images and events and the emotions they elicited. It was affirmation and permanence when the rest of life was wobbly.

Over time, I did some experimentation with poetic forms but rebelled when it came to anything requiring strict adherence to structure. It’s the same in my kitchen. Recipes are just a suggestion.

And so, you have my contribution to the project—a not quite haiku in praise of Ferris Avenue, a two-block street representing the best in all of us.

This is the color of my street:
black, brown, and white.
Prismatic and perfect.

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