In a hot country                   

A languid afternoon
in heat
that feels like summer.

I turn the fan on and stretch
across the bed.  Listening
to its subtle crooked whir,
I wonder if fans
become unscrewed
from their hinges.

Through the thin rectangular screen,
I watch the same tree
I've watched
for months.

Though as always with spring in a hot country
it seems the leaves have burst like flames
upon branches
that appeared as though dead.

*This poem was previously published in Poor Mojo's Almanac[k]

Deliberate lack of speed

Wes, I am driving your truck
over the rickety Vermont roads
carefully
like you told me.

It is more beautiful today
than I am capable of knowing
but feel, in part
because I am driving your truck
so very slowly.

I understand
it is a delicate and venerable old vehicle
and it may not last much longer.

Still, late summer
quivers above the rounded fields
in a veritable sigh of pollen
yellow blurs in the afternoon sun
bushes and tall grass
ripple as though in a basin
of brightened sea.

Dust rises as I turn
left down the road
to the hospice
pulling over
I wave a car past
then start again
maintaining
a deliberate lack of speed.

(this poem is dedicated to Wes Disney)

Page 3

© Copyright, Anne Cammon.
All Rights Reserved.