March 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Walking. The grasses are yellow.
Dry as straw still in the ground.
You don’t walk barefoot through these
grasses, not like the ones back home,
where the rainfall is hardly ever
lacking. When spring comes
there the wide and lively rivers
might flood their banks
thanks to many winter snows.
You are jealous of the drifts
that friends complain about climbing over
in city streets to get to their cars.
Above the yellow grasses, smoke drifts
from a mountain fire. It smells like
camping and the north woods.
At night, the ice maker clunks
muted from the kitchen. You walk
across linoleum in your socks, and
toss a cube to the dog, and the other dog.
Two for you, no, three.
Let the dry cubes melt into icy water.
Lick the moisture
from the curve of your hand.