Before they put me in a grave or an oven
to be taken up by the power of elements
chewing or burning away my decaying flesh,
I’m putting words down that won’t last
through the drying of one or two shed tears,

In its cocoon
the promise of the flutter,
the wind’s ride, the wings’ will.

Summer’s onslaught arrived
with a dry wind
and a sun, pounding down,
day after day.
The ground, parched,
cracked open.