|
| |
A High Rain
Yesterday was hot, it nailed
its peeling skin to a desiccated air.
This morning, rain is falling,
but it has yet to land -
a weightbearing sky creaks
though it does not break.
Above straining clouds
a dam has broken, perhaps the deluge will
crush all before it,
but not yet,
earth’s frying pan is lit and smoldering.
The wilting dawn cannot wash its face,
bedsheets smell of damp dogs.
The electric fizz of insects
scratches at our drowsy minds.
If I shift a sweat leached inch
I might tilt the world over a hidden seawall
drowning in the middle
of a dry prayer for rain, or perhaps soon
the light might undress itself
to leap into the clear pools
of our openly grateful eyes.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
|
|