Blue clouds bend toward a red sun that hangs <br />In the air like shoes from a telephone line. <br />Crimson dawn has crept in with the smell of hay <br />And the silence of sleeping crickets, as light <br />Meanders across the rafters of a tree-lined road. <br />There is wine hidden in this soil; truffles <br />Growing beneath these trees; and regret, polished, <br />Gleaming, parked out back, behind the garage. <br />The air is August-tired, Sunday-morning still; <br />It clings to backs and brows until they perspire, <br />Until they surrender to humid, high-strung hope, <br />To silo prayers, round, grouped, graded, and weighed— <br />That will turn to cumulonimbus despair: <br />The green squall line that ends in pelting hail.<br /><br />Gary Witt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/disappointment-16/
