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.

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