Friday, May 21, 1999

Blue-green day

sprinkled down, pressed

by Thursday's temper-tantrum weather.

 

Breezes,

new as Adam's first breath,

squeak across

leaves, grass, calf faces,

strewing winsome whispers.

 

Dry heat of weeks past sucked up moisture,

left watering holes with cracked

edges, like chapped lips.

Now only surface tension holds

water at pond's lip.

 

Tractors wait

with bated exhaust at field gates,

tugging steering wheels,

accelerators,

anxious to dance hope's ritual planting.

Certain of promise yet again.