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∴

 

i’ve never been afraid of storms.

not in rain
nor in snow.

 

it’s the sticky bits that get me.

 

it’s the too-still thick
that disquiets
my soul.

 

when the cicada
warns, in the distance –

but not so far off –

like a tv
that won’t turn off –

‘i’ll sedate you with the silence
if you don’t move,’

it drones,

 

so i stare at the corn’s hair,
willing it to the breeze,

‘bend,’ i pray,
‘budge.’

it must.

 

but the windmill
groans not.

the heat has stilled it
and in stillness

it rusts.

∴

 

 

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