I Hope For Thorns and Blackberries

A little house, on a shady street in Lincoln, Nebraska.

I sit at the kitchen table, writing, my window on a wild

lawn, where birds sing, and I hope for thorns and blackberries.

 

She is in another city, on the banks of the Missouri River.

Sometimes I think of her, the useless wishes that I could

have followed her, to not to have once again been left behind.

 

It is the end of June. The whole horizon is swallowed by

a black and purple storm cloud as the sun fades away,

darkness with gilt of burning red and orange, like an angel.

 

The rain pounds down as I lay in bed, sleepless, restless.

My overgrown lawn will drink it all up, grow knotted, fecund.

I hope for thorns and blackberries, and I hope for cuts and blood.