It’s late in the year you wonder
where’s the rain,
the hiss on scorched asphalt?
and you notice things more,
like the crackle of deer footsteps in woods
thick with pine straw, a tinderbox waiting,
waiting.
and the farm suffers so,
most folks cranky, living
on weather reports, scanning skies a naked blue,
only a few clouds,
the sun
deadly to hopes,
the sun
roasting front porches at noon,
no one out,
just a few going to shop,
bringing back five gallon jugs of water,
licking their cracked lips,
the corn just crisp and brown
and only three foot tall.
Farmers relying on their crops to help them make it through the winter --- yep, but give them just the right amount of rain, please no flood nor drought.
I love your imagery, Larry, I've said it before, I'll say it again: I love your imagery. :) Seriously: so few words pack a vivid punch, one sees the scene unfolding before the eyes. Excellent.
Mary Angela Nangini's poems celebrate the richness of life and love. From the city to cottage-country and the roads in between, Nangini explores the changing seasons of her varied region. (This book will soon be reprinted in hard cover.)
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Kathy
The farmers nightmare and the fires freind.
Nice pictures found in these words.
thank you
Chris
enjoyed...
John
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.