It's not yet September
but Spring gives the lip
to Summer's brute maw. Restless
the trees.
I've oiled the tools:
rake, seed drill, spade
and dreamed of propagation.
Not this year.
This year the shears remain
unsharpened, the hoe sleeps
with the scythe. No seed
to fill the earth.
Along the horizon's lean
muscle a sinew of heat.
Uncoiled the hungry snake
moves the dry grass aside.
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and
poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of sharon brogan
Sent: Thursday, 31 August 2006 7:17 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Snap 30 August 02006
It's not yet September
but the morning light
pales winter-dim. Forests
burn; our air thickens
with ashes and smoke.
I've pulled the rugs,
blankets, long-sleeved
shirts and heavy sheets
from the dark backs
of closets. There is no
poetry in me, only
lethargy and pain.
I resist, resist, this
cooling season. Vines
still bend with ripening
berries and yellow plum
tomatoes; honeysuckle
and roses bloom their final
flush. The parakeets sing
from their ornamental cage.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
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