Welcome back to Poetry Monday. Heat waves are driving everyone on the West Coast to seek relief from the oppressive sizzle outside. Hope today’s poem offers some comfort to my readers. Be well.
How blessed is this scourge that blankets
the ground, salutes the early rising sun
with white trumpets.
Vines twine around trees,
twists into tight ropes and choke,
a gasp the wind carries in its teeth.
Fear knots like the pale spot you saw
on film, the possible blot
blooming in gray blurs of tissue.
When the picture proves wrong, worry rises
like summer raindrops on hot cement
that vanish, a memory of weather.
Nothing to wind inside your chest,
no seed to flower, spread
like loosestrife or buttercup.
For now, your year is free of weeds,
even if your garden is not.
For now, your body is your own.