9/7/18

There’s a time when wind whisper stills to gasp in auburn
Skies and hair whip gently as called, fury released in
Little tiny drops of water and they dangle from the edge of
Clouds, languid in gray-scorched sky and nowhere else at all.
There’s a time when scraps of metal burn from tractors in heat and
Sun falters over oceans clutching tender scrapes, rash and
Leaves flutter through a nightless sky beached in a dream while
Birds sing wide and low following the path of the moon.
There’s a time when blue folds to crimson,
that’s when I chart

your hand over the roots.

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