Season of Locusts

Here on this morning of haze and thunder
after a flash like echoes of a word spoken
behind slammed doors: look over yonder
where the last leaves of spring's tender
greenery tremble to a scorched waking.

Summer comes in a cloud of strange hungers
like locusts falling on fields already stricken
by drought and barren. Sap dries on fingers
that shred dead grass in helpless anger
for causes with which we can hardly reckon--

promises made when the season was younger
infinite possibilities of sap rising
burned to sudden ash by stronger
light and thunder on a distant horizon.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside