“Green was the silence, wet was the light”
~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
There would have been occasional planes
dragging sound across the blistered sky,
and there must have been some birds around.
Stormless days (and nights without stirring
relief) clump together–slick pages,
tacky with sweat and Nehi Orange.
Days with dust to breathe and the nights thick
with suicidal gray moths beating
against the window screen while I read.
Summer is chiefly the smell of green
walnuts lying bruised among hailstones,
strong, bitter and clean in the aftermath.