Posted in Poetry

Drought Notes 2018

They’ll have something to say later about these parched weeks, about the heat, and much more to say if the potatoes die of it. But the chill of a welcome early breeze lifts the hair of my old arms, and I’ve no crop or garden under threat as I make my way down the hill, passing without comment the bleak gray walls of the shuttered convent where the nuns once did what they must have thought God wanted and where now the pigeons live in unruly spaces beyond panes broken by who knows what — winter storms or naughty boys or other free things.

This piece appears in the Tishman Review.

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