Friday, August 15, 2008

August Storms

The golden grasses
Crackle under foot
As dusty odors
Rise from my passing.

Even the insects
Are silently waiting
As the tiny dot of promise
Builds on the horizon.

A gentle breeze stirs
The drooping leaves
Of plants not native
To the arid clime.

Hope springs
In the blossoming white puffs
That appear mysteriously
In the blueness of the sky.

The whiteness turns gray
And then the deepest blue
As it hangs curtains on the horizon.

The breeze strengthens
And even the hard stems
Of golden grasses
Begin to shiver with excitement.

As the curtain approaches
A brown smudge appears
Rising against the darkness,
Swelling to a rolling wall.

The odor of dust
Permeates the rising wind
And the first stinging particles
Assail upturned faces

As dollops of moisture
Splash muddy blotches
On greedy surfaces
That quickly absorb.

Brown gives way
To greens and whites
On the backdrop
Of deepest blue-black.

Whack, whack!

Peas and marbles
Golf balls and baseballs,
The roar grows
And overwhelms.

The horizon moves nearer
As objects fade
Beneath the torrent
Rolling across the plains.

Prayers answered.
More prayers said.
Fear and thanksgiving
Together swell.



Barbara Martin said...

Very interesting how everything written melded into the next change nicely. Well done.

WomanHonorThyself said...

well done indeed!

ptg said...


Janie said...

Great poetry, Chris.

Plowing and Sowing said...

I did tell Hillbilly Willy "hello" for you. While I was up there, we got a little of the much needed rain.