Let

August brought the slow flies, tropical
thoughts, a stick-figure insect, rigid on the walk.
Then the lilies multiplied.

The way they grew rife, each owning evening
inside, to finally pull off in one shrivel,
soft, between finger and thumb—

their way is mine. I have no wish
to strive. Instead, I take the morning,
make myself a standing place, deliberately

out of the sun. Let sky release its blue crush.
Let rain click its needles of uselessness.
Let lightning sew the piece. Let the rest rinse grass.

Copyright © 2004 Joan Houlihan All rights reserved
from Hand-Held Executions
Del Sol Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission