Words By rm mist, Art By natureworks
Last August as barometers
fell and skies spun their pewter webs,
we dreamed of rain. Watching thirsty
sourwoods blush before the light
shifted, we pressed that buxom summer
to fill our shelves with bottles of bread
and butter pickles, spicy salsa, home brew.
Dog days courted the fat winds
out of Alabama, teased us to seventh heaven,
hid downpours in fox grapes and persimmons.
That year we looked up, sought safe haven
in a Farmer’s almanac. The hours sailed
toward summer’s end, in graceful orbit of Earth,
and we prayed like refugees for nimble ideas
to reunite land and sky. Patient love
sweltered between line-dried sheets. We
believed sundogs were omens, believed we
could pull them apart like wishbones to find water.
Our oracles hid in flowers, still seeds under dry soil,
in warts of a mother bulb. This year swells open,
nick of time, lusciously wet and brilliantly blue
and this summer we wake to cool mornings,
pregnant with thunderheads, bursting
like ripe plums most afternoons. Yellow anthers
shiver Jove offerings onto flighty heels
of bees, our gardens yield licentious bounty.
Bullfrogs practice swallowing the pond.
We wish Eden weren’t so capricious,
but our wild hearts know better. We are
the fickle ones, and paradise meets us here.