This Soul Is…








This Soul Is…

A single, windblown tree
on a grassy plain,
stunted by gales of critical air.

Migrating thoughts glide, bound and graze,
rabbits, antelope, raptors; prey
forager and predator ways.

Whistle trains sift a morning haze.

Fantasies in heat waves
shimmy each lowland blade,
fiery rut of a love affair.

Sliced, ended. A dagger of low light
across a flatland glade,
browsed bare.

My soul awaits a cleansing rain.

© 2010 Rita Doyle Roberts

This entry was posted in Writings.