straw-
berries
dipped
in
cream,
hidden,
rise cool
from the bowl
drip
spill
over
in the heat
they can only do
so much
when flames
lap
at the edge
temp-
erature
rises
there is no
refreshment
high
in the
mountains
where Birds
pass
smacked lips
still crack
like earth
take another
sweet
bite
to (out)last
red
skies
swallow
tinder dry
words
fail us
we lapse
into a
silence
that comes
of
too many
too much
to witness
the garden’s
Last Days
cast
in ash
and dust.
Sonia Nicholson 