Front Range Spring Storm–Sonny Zwierkowski
April grey
clouds hang
high and thick,
boiling
pregnant
with the wet promise
of rebirth.
The dry Colorado
earthen clay
sleeps
eager,
anticipating.
The neighbor’s
immaculate lawn
at the corner of 51st and Decatur,
burned to amber
in the fall,
stretches its thousand
tiny arms.
The old woman’s
rose bushes along Clay St.,
curved brown and barren
under the low
southern Sun,
stand witness to
the circle curving
back again.
The rain begins
ascending,
dancing rhythms on chilled
aluminum awnings.
The rising crowing
has begun and
from the cracks emerge
ancient
jaded
earthworms
so thirsty
to
drown.
Clerestory Poetry Journal 