I had forgotten how the rain sounds

when it falls on leaves, stiffened

in windless weeks, smoked

to a crisp. Portentous orangeness

clung like viscous ghost, hanging

‘round horizon; in heavy robe, haunting

us. Goading us. With every growing sun

light darkened in a lifeless sky. We

breathed in short breaths, lungs coated

with grime. Time slowed, each second

choked. No where to hide, we froze.

And burned.


It broke. And blue view spoke,

‘tween clouds pockmarking heavens

we forgot existed. Oasis of air,

freed by westerlies — onshore breeze,

blew life into our lungs

once again. Wet. Clean. Free.


~ Emily C.




17 thoughts on “Crisp

      1. Hanging in there. I went to a baseball game last Thursday and it triggered a worsening of vertigo, so I’m dealing with that now. Keeping up with the vestibular therapy so hopefully it will subside sooner than later.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Oh wonderful! Happy Independence Day! I’ll be catching up in time when my brain can handle screens better. Say…I just bought a book of Rudyard Kipling poetry. He were The Jungle Book and was born in Bombay. It will be interesting to see his poetic perspective of the history of India at that time (1836). I hope your festivities are full of friends, family and food!

        Liked by 1 person

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