by Becky Harblin
The promises laid out by sun, curl up to hatch in summer dreams
each bordered by chicory blooms, sweet clover and birdsongs.
Cows let out to graze in a new field so rich with hay they are lost
immediately, except for tails switching above the gold green grass.
Eyes close in the afternoon shade while a light breeze rustles
the paper. Ice melts and the remaining tea turns pale and drowns an ant.
Two boys toss a Frisbee back and forth over the head of a small
barking black dog. Another boy is ripping through the fields on a four-wheeler.
Their older brother is hunched uncomfortably in the heat, his gun at the ready,
two mortar rounds go off nearby. He is only deafened by the sound.
And the newspaper reads ‘46 dead last month in Afghanistan’. While some
man shoots helium filled balloons to land his flying chair in Idaho.
The pond is quiet, just mosquitoes launching out to be uneaten
by bats, or frogs, or the wasps the homeowners killed today.
The day closes moist and heavy, while revelers drink and throw their bottles
in the woods. And the night is pregnant with the sound of booming.
Becky Harblin is a sculptor who works in concrete and soapstone and also writes daily haiku and senryu. Each morning starts with these meditative 'in-the-moment' poems. Becky lives on a farm with sheep in upstate New York. After years of working in Manhattan she moved to the more pastoral setting and found new inspirations and new challenges. Her poetry has been published on New Verse News, and North Country Literary Journal. You may also view her poems at her Web site.
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