Dead Voices of Summer
Drought.
Another cold, dry Autumn.
Like farm workers
exhausted rain clouds
lay down their burden.
The dead voices of summer
sing spirituals,
the water streaming
from the eaves
like harp strings.
Were one to reach out
and touch these wet strands
he would pluck a chord
no less sweet
than that of rain
seeding a parch earth,
no more painful
than goose flesh,
no less restful than
the metamorphosis
of life to death,
when even suffering
is lost to memory
and a season
slips into nothingness
for another year.
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