(no subject)
Bumblebees in clover
My children swing with fortune tellers
Counting, predicting, believing in magic
The choke of smoke carried on the wind
Chalky fingers, scent-hungry bugs
Half-closed dandelions
Resting in the 4 o’clock shade
White blackberry flowers tempting
Blood hidden along the stems
Goose-flesh clouds drift above
Needly gray-green trees
Dark bogs, dogs bark
A holiday is coming
Screeching with flightful fire
Ascending notes, a flute, a harpsichord
Then bawling
Explosion, face wet with mourning
It’s what everyone wants
But you