THE GOOD SIGNS

 

20160109-IMG_5547

 

Sunday evening, pickup loads of snow
file down the road to town: snowmen
for Visalia, Exeter, Farmersville front yards

to melt and soak into drought-brown lawns
no one’s mowed in years—a hurried
shortcut from mountains to Valley

upon a crumbling blacktop channel—
water that these oaks and sycamores
see only as lumps of white passing at fifty.

The west and south slopes fill-in
with green, purple patches of frost-bitten
filaree that looked like bare dirt,

softly embrace us now as if we were cattle.
Too wet for work that waits outside,
we slowly release winters of urgency

camped at the door and ease into the
vaguely familiar—reacquaint ourselves
with mud and rain, with one another.

 

3 responses to “THE GOOD SIGNS

  1. Yes !

    Liked by 1 person

  2. A deep breath followed by a smooth exhale and a cup of coffee. Not yet dare to say, “I think we’re going to be ok”.

    Liked by 1 person

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