Dead Cedar

Bloodroot Spears

 

Week after week

heat, wind, sun,

shrinks vernal pools.

 Ditches are dry.

Denizens

of wet forest,

 masked gold leaves,

seek shallow depressions

 fed by Spring.

One night the

heat wave breaks

I smell rain,

hear hoarse croaks.

I stand there

swallowing sound

inhaling fragrant air

Lamenting absence –

 so many voices stolen

by drought.

 

At dawn

two frogs persevered, 

laid a cluster

of eggs –

clasping

each other

in prayer.

A week later

 stray snowflakes

pressure earth,

forcing

  pale green.

A cluster

of bloodroot spears

 splits ground.

I dream

my Voice is

Drowning

in a pail

of jellied eggs.

A dead cedar

rots nearby.

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