They Report the Lakes are Full
by Brady Peterson



From my upstairs window—pear blossoms white,
each perfect. Tiny green figs peek out from winter,
milder this year, though the tornado warnings
Monday remind us that mild and nature
are hardly comfortable dance partners.
A red tail perches on a highway pole,
scanning the grass for mice, a delicacy.

Four miniature porcelain fat Buddhas
huddle on my window sill, a gift from a student,
expressing a certain rebellion against Baptist
orthodoxy. On my desk, a cross with an engraved
dove holding an olive branch in its beak,
another gift—sent to me when my daughter
died.

This is how we touch—how we remember.

It rains for four days, but now a pause.
Puddles of water on green grass. We had meant
to plant tomatoes Sunday. And basil—
dancing the space between a possible late
freeze and an early summer when it grows too hot
for the tomatoes to set.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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