Sit under the broom tree if you must
but don’t expect the shade
to cool the drenched pool
between your shoulder blades
or salve the creases of your heart
for there’s too much staked
on these days that wait for the bruised clouds
to pass over the blinding laser shafts
to quench your parched and swollen tongue.
Give yourself a second chance.
Give the one who whispers in your ear
a way to modulate the key
as phrases riddle and roll off the edges
slowly once again while beetles burrow
in the burnt sand and a small curl of a breeze
catches the edge of your sleeve
as off in the distance
it’s either young thunder’s timid blooming
or the echo of your own sour complaint
turned back upon itself
spun completely inside out
ready to rise up and spill over the land
before a single drop of rain ever falls
as you carry the call back into the fray
forgetting not how you got this far
or why the force that feeds your breath
won’t ever let you go.
Faith Nostbakken © 05/06/2023