My brown-skinned girl,
each dusty draw
seems softer, shadows
linger longer at the dawn
as the sun moves south
down ridgelines.
I begin to hear
the faint sound
of a light rain, early
on the roof—the musty
smell of it awakening
a primal surge of new life
for old veins on guard
for the slightest sign
telegraphed ahead
of a train in my mind
mesmerized by rivulets
finding their own way
to the creek running
into spring. Cottonwoods’
first yellow leaves
gathered by rolling gusts
up and down canyon—
you say you feel it too.
drycrikjournal 
Really lovely…paints a wonderful picture in my imagination.
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Thanks, Laurin. And thanks for visiting 🙂
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This poem is one of those in which when you reach the last word you sigh. Beautiful.
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Thanks, Angeline. Not sure exactly what it is, whether the alignment of the sun, long shadows, or the recent weather change, albeit monsoonal, but we’re ready for fall/winter knowing that it’s too early for a rain to start the grass. But a good feeling, nonetheless.
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Not much to say except, oh my, what a beautiful poem.
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