Ripening

Summer's close as an unborn child
My dress made of earth, moist at the waist, tight to my chest
Somewhere there is a roof where taps its stone note
But I am full of the soaked sweet clover unstoppered,
The cloud travelling the distant moon
Moments are ripening: tomatoes; dark forms of cornstalks shake their limbs loose, husks shudder
I pull my rain collar close as voices carry off, as hushes deepen, as marigold seeps out; junebug, firefly.

by Cheryl Derby

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