by Carolyn Gregory
Daylilies burst orange trumpets
on tall green stems,
bending but not breaking
when torrential rainstorms come,
pounding horse hooves of water.
At night, lightning streaks sky
with forked design,
windows flung open to cooling rain
summer gardens and sparrows love.
In the region of Maroon Bells
and used up gold mines
beneath the indigo Rockies
where deserts grow deeper
each scorched summer without rain,
wild fires fly, their thick clouds
blacker than hurricanes,
burning off the wings of condors
and turning snakes and lizards to leather.
Curving through the Gloucester harbor,
sleek boats shine effortlessly
as vacationers toss towels,
toast clambakes, pots full of lobster,
mussels and red potatoes.
Children climb rocks stretched with barnacles,
swimmers stroke through cold green waves,
a lighthouse guarding the landscape.
In the state of Colorado
which translates from the Spanish for red
like sky turned into an oil-charged inferno,
pets are packed with suitcases
full of heirlooms and family photos,
mothers swathed in headscarves,
carrying bottled water for children,
unsure if walls remain standing
and roofs not crumble, scorched
with wild, insatiable bees of fire.
Carolyn Gregory's poems and essays on music have been published in American Poetry Review, Main Street Rag, Bellowing Ark, Seattle Review, and Stylus. She was featured in For Lovers and Other Losses. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2011 and is a past recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council award. Her book, Open Letters, was published by Windmill Editions in 2009 and her next, Facing the Music, will be published in 2012.
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