Thursday, July 30, 2020

The Garden in Hot Weather (Paul Klee), Sonnet #523

The incinerate sun scorches
The grass, now dormant, and chases
The shadows past moveless spaces.
The chipmunks dart beneath porches
To nibble at the last winged seeds. 
Each of us has incessant needs.

I wait for the redemptive rain. 
The garden wilts, its petals drop.
The leopard slugs’ single feet flop. 
Though I have caused a little pain,
We’re all culpable as we grasp,
Dance to the cicada’s mad rasp,
The cricket’s rip, katydid’s grind.
We envy their having no mind.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:

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