Time Is a Desert of Rain
Again the wind
and the gray-toned clouds.
Again the sun
is a broad, bright moon.
Again I ache,
bruised from winter years.
I forget why
spring disappoints me.
If the body creates tribes of cells
charged to manufacture joy,
mine have become nomads,
following rumors of light. When
did they last know a home? A porch.
A place to sit and knit elation
while the long rains fall.
Copyright © 2021 by Barbara E. Young. All rights reserved. Barbara E. Young is a Middle Tennessee native. She has known party lines, coonskin caps, hula hoops, transistor radios under the covers, 8-track, CD-ROM, Blogger, and Covid 19. She returned to writing poetry at age 60 and still has a lot to learn. Heirloom Language is her first full-length collection.
Tagged: Book Excerpt, Poetry
