Wednesday, April 21, 2010


Like a farmer I squat and watch life's sky
unceasingly changing hues. Clouds barge in
tantalizingly close, self-possessed, unbucking,
and in time, slither away. The dark , massive,
brooding ones turn the air moist and electric,
the thin wisps seem to shoot down and hug me.
My fevered anticipation, shudders when dry
static crackles. I ball up with clustered
worries. My seeds will rot. Pastures of heaven
won't ever grow here.

- Max

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