Peter Jastermsky
Morongo Valley, California, USA

Waiting out December

In the meadow, the grass stands frozen. This reminds us of hair waxed to attention, of days when we used to hit the ground, like children. But the earth has grown hard along with us, and we slap with hands that come up stinging.

If these bodies had wings, they could soar above our yearnings. Until the attic rat gnaws on our linens, or wrinkles arrive in the folds of younger flesh.

remembering rain
the shock
of that first drop