Lorraine Schechter

II The sun is high in the not so blue; over the mountain huge clouds slate grey, ultramarine purple, lavender mass together to make mischief. They come at midday, linger awhile and release pounds of rain, as the airplanes did after the fire, releasing pounds of seeds germinating the mountain floor with a rainbow of wildflowers. Those seeds lie in expectant dormancy longing for the rain, waiting for its kiss, the wet tenderness of its tongue seeking an opening space in which to wander, to rest, to test the love of sleeping beauty. Like the mountain, I sleep in wounded silence dreaming. The buzz saw's begun again; a fly's buzz is deafening and the first crack of thunder reminds me it's Fourth of July.

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Issue #7, February, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.