Morning, Sickling

 

A black dawn this morning,

but feeling pastoral,

I ventured out

in spite.

 

The air was gone,

at first--

then became solid,

creeping beads across

my tight forehead.

 

I tried an apostrophe:

“O wind, rend the heat–“

that didn’t work.

 

The lifeless air

matched my thoughts,

forging on like a lost soldier.

I flailed,

wielding the sickle blindly,

trying to lay the sharp

bitter grass low.

 

Thick roots seemed to ooze,

bent, buckled

before my masterful strokes.

But I heaved and sighed,

sweat flowing freely,

coating my hands, neck,

hardening ribs,

 

and the strokes came slower,

stiffer,

duller...stopped, I cleared my vision

with a swipe of shaking forearm.

 

No light yet.

O wind, get over here already.

 

Mark Harris