Across the chartreuse fields of mustard splashed
With failing hearts of grain,
Stand relentless days of summers inexcusable,
Scoring poverty and pain.

Rainless cracked; an anvil to the yellow heat which lashes
Sod in shear distain,
Each breathe unwelcome as a flame
To live or die becoming something choosable
For years the phoenix rests whereof it crashed
With towered rocks high jacking rain.

I have my little brother’s heart in hand
His nappy head nears rest
I cannot die until there’s nothing losable
Or there’s nothing more than air he can ingest.
The draw becomes the drain
The will to die has emptied all the pain.

No regret, no disdain
And God is somewhere waiting-
To take us … to the shadow of his wing.