What You Wish For
The morning air
is heavy with heat.
Not even a leaf is stirring.
Beneath a blanket of grey,
emerald and evergreen
silently watch
the murky brown river
flow by.
In the distance,
mowers drone,
then slow to a halt,
as guzzling workers
wipe sweat from their brows,
those workers
who months ago plowed
while dreaming of summer.
by Joan Kantor
Editor’s Note: The title of this poem complements its clear imagery with hidden depth.
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