By James Nelson
It’s only days from midsummer
and the growing things are lush
the colors vibrant
but the growth has slowed
the grass begun to brown
and the black flies
looking for death
are already hovering
in gray, buzzing clouds.
Far toward the horizon
fruit and harvest,
still months away,
dance like a dream
on the rising heat waves
that sap my strength
and speak despondency
to my soul
now fifty eight days
past resurrection.
The new wine, consumed,
is but a memory and now
is the time of locusts, honey,
hunger, and work
in this in-between
when I am betwixt
my first burst of love
and consummation,
leaving only hopeful toil
to carry me to glory.
Copyright 2006 James Nelson
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