By Ronald Pelias

Summer’s onslaught arrived
with a dry wind
and a sun, pounding down,
day after day.
The ground, parched,
cracked open.
The lakes hit record lows,
some turned to dust.
Fire claimed the nearby hills.
Afraid, we stayed inside.

By the time fall crawled in
little was left.
The leaves of the giant oak
went straight from green
to brown before falling
where grass once grew.
The garden was a garden
of twigs and weeds,
the house, covered with grime.
We’ll have time, we thought,
no reason for alarm.
We wanted everything
in order.

Winter waited until December
before it appeared
with deadly breath, held
us with its cold fingers.
The wind was relentless.
The white moon shivered,
seemed exposed.
Nothing seemed right.
No snow fell. None.
We knew even if spring
kept its promise,
it would be too late.

Copyright Pelias 2019