Low, pink clouds surprise. A glowing refreshment, Before the long exhale Of a wearied man having trudged so long Through dust, Succumbed to the dull stone, Scraped in thorns, Pasted in stickery sweat, To a vista: visited before, Briefly.
The slow release into newness, And old places returning.
This thirst will not go, It's scratching, clawing, Snatching nights, And holding fast in the haze of dawn.
Give me the sweet smells of loam, And damp leaves. Passing edens Languishing In the softness of decay.
The long exhale, Reprieves from the gasping anxieties. As the sharpening air, Plays host to the first water Falling on the dry grass.
Sam A. Flanagan