by Heather Nicaise

Silver-threaded platinum clouds are moving in.

The polished copper sun sinks into velvet

leaving us fumbling for light switches.

The breeze tastes acorn bitter.

The sugar-sweet smell of rain tantalizes

a sensitive nose. The sky is dimming;

someone has put gauze over our eyes.

Lights in windows flicker on and off like fireflies.

The trees have shape now.

Each branch, each leaf, each bough, each needle

exist now more than they did before.

Mushroom sprinklers are unpopped

hoses are coiled like sleeping rattlesnakes.

Even at dusk, the green lawns glow

though they could be reduced to brown

overnight, summoning the coroner

who no one wants to see arrive.

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Filed under Issue 7, Poetry

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