now
there is
only the 
pensive rumble
of storm cloud
breaching,
deep in thought
it presses down
on the
petrichor
earth,
its
crooked
branches
struggle
to 
bloom
sweet
nectared catkins
of willows
weep, 
grieving
the
hum of 
bee
and the
brooding weight
of a sky
boiling thick
above as
flowers 
listless
fade 
my own
feet 
stand bare,
exposed in 
moss and
fragrant grass,
thick cut
fresh from 
damp
rain and dew
while 
solicitous birds
quiet steal
what’s 
left

Barbara – May 20, 2019