In Season

Feb 27 2013

In the wet season

the light

is easy on the eyes.

The low sky

feels claustrophobic, to some

sheltering others.

Comforted

as we tend to be

in small familiar rooms.

In a cold rain

I shiver

hold myself stiffly

gather my collar close.

Or hot and humid

in fetid monsoon

getting harder to breathe,

fearing flood, high tide

storms at sea.

Rot

entering everything.

Rarely

a patch of blue, a shaft of light

piercing through.

And we all look up,

blinking

in unaccustomed sun.

Soon enough

it will be dry,

the season of parched tongues

and blinding dust.

The wind, in the distance

sounding its ominous note,

like the dry rub

of exhausted soil

rolled between finger and thumb.

As I kneel

in a cracked and wilted field.

Either scorch

or drown,

in the ocean of sand

creeping slowly closer.