by Lynda Gene Rymond
In air too warm for any November,
rainy season trumped by drought,
Blue Mountain births a wildfire
moving through tree roots
like soldiers in the dark.
The news is bad at 11,
worse at 3, a landslide
by first light —hope bound
and handed over to the bull-roar
of Minotaur triumph.
Tomorrow or the next day
we’ll start plucking strands
of resistance. Today is just for
watching the steel-gray clouds
and praying for rain.
Lynda Gene Rymond lives and works on Goblin Farm in Applebachsville, Pa, where she raises fruits and vegetables, goats, chickens, honeybees, poems, and short stories. Find her and her workshops at www.goblinfarm.net