LandRise

 

Tumbleweed careens,
Skitters on yellow dirt

Sintered so hard

In the furnace of summer

That a pickaxe barely leaves a scratch.

 

Water runs

Over my annealed tongue

And drips straight out every pore.

Sweat drips pock the ground.

But the small, gnarled tree

I plant here

Stands bold and green.

 

I can feel the land

Begin to rise

After a long, dusty,

Hardscrabble time,

When hope dried out,

When shirtless men, like me,

Sweated

Over one last tiny tough stake.

 

Just as I stand up and

Bend back to face the world

Full on and proud,

Steel-bottom clouds

Belly out a tall sky

Puffing chilled air.

Pelting rain.

The curtain blows wet

At the window.

Static’s hairy tongue

Licks my spine.

A splitting

Crack-of-doom bolt

Comes quick as an accident.

Eyes flinch closed.

Thunder booms down
And echoes sharp

Off unseen hills.

 

I got it now.

That was the official announcement.

In ozone clarity,

I can see

The land begins to rise.

 

Ken Brody ©2001