Weather, No Forecast by Christine Vovakes

Weather, No Forecast

After three dry months
a night-long rain broke through
combing the morning with wet fingers.
A slow-eyed sun rose through cloud remnants,
spread a gauzy layer over the lawn
as I walked the dog out back to the apple
and peach trees, the crevices of their pruned limbs
empty cribs March will fill with buds and nests.

Geese break the silence, a noisy skein
dipping toward the nearby river.
I’m tethered here: no wings, no tongue to taste
the wild salmon the eagle hunts.
My black lab alerts, scent of mole,
and digs deep in search.
Dirt flies. I bend down, crumble
a handful of damp soil, dank earthy smell,
summer’s rotting wildflowers
and the last of autumn’s fallen fruit–
a spoiled brew letting microbes fester;
new life looms where the earthworm wriggles.

by Christine Vovakes

Editor’s note: The personification in the first stanza captures the attention, and cradles the detailed imagery to follow.

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