speaking to the wind
there is a singsong lightness to your voice
it does me no good,
no good at all.
staring out the back door
watching the old live oak tree
sway in the evening wind.
i cut the grass earlier in the heat
there are burrs and slices
where the blade was uneven,
and my feet are dusty.
we wait for the thunder
we wait for the rain
and the heavy gale that pushes
the clouds like cattle.
the screen door clatters as you walk outside
you stand and arch your back
glance over your shoulder at me
sitting under the fan
drinking from a wet glass.
i hear you talk, lightly echoing
as if from the bottom of a dry well
you’re talking about the smell of rain
and how the clouds are frightened of the dark dark earth
and so they run and cry in fear
leaving wide wet swathes
on the skin of the earth.
and i’m saddened for the weather
in a way that feels warm and good
cause i know you will always be there
speaking to the wind
while standing outside the screen door
of our backyard.
speak to the wind
in your light and singsong voice.
