The lemon tree
the fields of grass
the laundry line
the pine bows
sing in the breeze
but the wind chime
tucked under the eave
is quiet.
The clouds are as bright as
fistfuls of salt
flashbulbs at midnight
little girls jumping rope.
I am rocking on the porch
I am transpiring
I am waiting for someone.
It might maybe thunder and lightning
later
but I didn't hear it
when the rain came down this morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment