A Midsummer Rain in LB

When water dies
of terrible heat
in gray clouds
it rains in LB.

The dead pour
in brisk drizzles
and the wind
whispers a prayer.

Touching mud
their souls flutter
as brown bugs into
the last string of sunlight.

Subscribe to my newsletter

Receive new poems, vignettes, and essays on a free, creative, inquiring, and liberative spirituality directly to your inbox. It’s free and you can unsubscribe any time.