Hot Attic Dry

This deep in August,
Cicadas go long,
Run the length of the field
With their each-other song.

Zinnias on stalks,
With defeat in their eye,
Brown upward in place
Going hot-attic dry.

The hawk, he is hungry;
The squirrel hops it nimble
Down his power line highway,
A risk, a life-gamble.

Only the butterflies
Haven’t a care.
Their wings drink abundance
From oven-hot air.


Dew On The Screen

Dew pearls on the screen,
Heaven’s tears, call me to
Repent, not to love
Misery and verdict deserved,
But because
After tears,
Through tears,
Are the Arms!
Our flesh is cherished,
Caressed, by
The Hands that scooped up
Earth and impregnated it
With Himself.
Creation and incarnation
Are our sweet flesh, ripe peaches,
August-morning sun burns dawn mist
Away, and dew on the screen
Parches within,
Silently, invisibly,
Lost in His hug.
Matthew 5: 4