Umbriate Press Poetry

I

The wind inches through the garden,

Caterpillar halts

To watch a moon-faced hibiscus

Spit joy in the sun’s

Passing face.

II

Dead season’s gift—

The air something other than

Blight

When the jackrabbit whines

For lack of root.

III

Beckoned by a siren’s hollow voice

To the outer edge of a gleaming forest

I looked beyond the mass of moist green,

Felt a burning, a whiff of ash,

I turned back, alone, but safe.