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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4613 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Dog Day Lament Heather Long A bend in the creek flush with ragweed, nature in twisted rapture, slow to sleep in heat the hills deliver through tents of larch and pine. Thirty feet away, the dead have buried themselves in sod-roofed tombs. Content in their damp sanctuary I remember two, the willow birthing the oak, both dying out in summer. Summers a dozen years between, when benediction raised only sorrow and not the hot sap we willed to their limbs; such language gorging the world with nothing but syllables and desire. |
