Poem

Humid wind 

In a dusky morning daylight 

Blowing through amber grass 

Drowning out the cries 

Of the cicadas 

That live and die in the shade 

Of gnarled and ancients trees 

A thousand and more blades 

Like the feet of angry locusts 

Singing in the field 

Baked to the color 

And countenance of clay 

Going out in early morning 

Daring barefoot on the stones 

Sharp and steaming already at daybreak 

To collect some fruits of the vine 

To steal some work of the hens 

Shivering all the while 

Despite the sun 

And rarely daring to turn eyes away from 

The amber grass 

That will devour the world