The night exhales a coolness
that seems foreign after the
hammering heat of the day,
an alien breath wetbacked across
a dangerous border,
speaking another tongue.
So age comes to me running crouched
across the river, buttons missing,
wearing her threadbaring gown,
breathing lines, bending flesh
to slope and flow at gravity's whim,
calling her wares from the rocktop of
a round calcite egg turned silvered stone,
grit-pocked and bubbled with imperfections,
dirtied in the hard guttered smut of too many
days blown out, all the soft splattering away
from the sun's falling diamond drops.
She's hungry. She's tired as the hour after birth.
I look at last in her eyes, see only another night visitor,
an undocumented gypsy marched thru a hundred
dry gullies carrying her heavy pack, looking for work,
speaking the language of the cool breeze
that mists itself up from the fall
of a too bright day.
Prompt: Whatever the Weather
Stu MacPherson is hosting today and has asked us to write a poem in which the weather figures in some way.
If you would like to hear a rather unprofessional reading of this poem by the author, who got tired of re-recording after many tries, click below:
Image: Day2: Night Sky, by Jeremy Zilar on flick'rShared under a Creative Commons License