Blue clouds bend toward a red sun that hangs
In the air like shoes from a telephone line.
Crimson dawn has crept in with the smell of hay
And the silence of sleeping crickets, as light
Meanders across the rafters of a tree-lined road.
There is wine hidden in this soil; truffles
Growing beneath these trees; and regret, polished,
Gleaming, parked out back, behind the garage.
The air is August-tired, Sunday-morning still;
It clings to backs and brows until they perspire,
Until they surrender to humid, high-strung hope,
To silo prayers, round, grouped, graded, and weighed—
That will turn to cumulonimbus despair:
The green squall line that ends in pelting hail.
Gary Witt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/disappointment-16/
