Saturday, April 5, 2014

Drought


Over the farm equipment show,
and the lot where old oaks once had been,
clouds, but no rain : clouds, that in their color
pass as dust : dust, and a mournful breakfast scent
from the edge of town : town, where the first
early haircut is done, the slap of lotion
on : on, in a truck that smells like
last year’s straw : straw,
or a barn floor bed
with your girl
gone.



8 comments:

Jonathan Chant said...

Love this one William. A Steinbeck poem no less.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jonathan. Very familiar territory, and much loved.

Jan said...

William...your beautiful thoughts and words have brought back to me a lovely memory of a days spent in a small country farm town. Thank you~

William Michaelian said...

I’m glad, Jan. Thank you, too.

Joseph Hutchison said...

One of my favorites of yours, William. I love the way you use the "funnel" form, too....

William Michaelian said...

Many thanks, Joe....

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Drought


The pond has gone dry, lilies now barely
floating an inch from the mud,
once sunny blooms crowded and browning,
trapped in a yearning pit
with the frogs and the snakes and the fish.

This pond once escaped these now barren banks,
gleefully spread in the grass,
drowned wildflowers in the pasture with a laugh,
now just an empty depression, retreating
like the gasp of an unfulfilled wish.

I could go dry like the pond if I wanted…
blade barely an inch from the blood.
But I know that when the pond shrinks and dies
then it’s soon to drown flowers
and grant us another fine flood.

Nothing can stay full forever,
no status quo that change won’t relinquish
and forever leaves nothing all dry.


Copyright 2008 – HARDWOOD: 77 Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Gary....