I have not yet crested over the hill
But the longest days have come
And the summer oppresses with a searing heat
I look for signs of withering winter
In every thirsting blade of glass
And find no joy in the hatchlings
With my own nest unlined and uninhabited
The dread of my imaginings hold me immobile
And paint a grotesque hydra beyond the apex
Instead of a pleasant valley of milk and honey
RED GLADIOLA 