The sky is hot like leather
Brown and coating our skin
With beads surging into streams
Of sweat
In the distance
A lonely guitar throbs
Crooning refrains of love
And regret
We toil long and
Hum the oscillating songs
One by one to forget
The hour
Bugs sway back and forth
On blades of green
Tired and scorched by fever and
By life
Women tell stories
Laugh with heads thrown back
Simple versions of disaster pulsate in
Their smiles
Men with sinewy arms
Pull from the lazy earth
Swollen roots of sustenance and
Of dreams
Children thump the ground
Like ragtime drummers
Beating rhythms of play and
Far away
The musician strums andante
Caressing silvery strings releasing
Vibrations of melody and
Of moan.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Author: Jill Szoo Wilson
I am captivated by beauty, questions that dig to the center of things, and people who tell the truth about the human experience.
View all posts by Jill Szoo Wilson
Necessary Whispers 