The Drowning Summer
The first two corn crops drowned
As infants, the third is sickly.
For frogs new subdivisions are found
In puddles that fill usually dry roads.
Windows drip and the floors
Sweat. Nothing feels really dry,
And going out or in each door
Requires a war with its sticking.
The only ones with real cause to celebrate
Are the mosquitoes. We fear this is the year
By which their historians will calibrate
The beginning of a world conquest.
Is this the season of Saint
Noah? The one the gods must
Truly love the best? His quaint
Tale real, are we abandoned to floods?
Bored with being prisoners to rain
We walk in woods now swamps; our
Footsteps sink well marked in mud, retained
With those of deer, and occasional bobcat.
A tiny salamander, sleek amber colored jewel
Slips silently across the foot-stepped muck
And unexpectedly it is clear that this cruel
Summer is to some life-giving: grace.
– Barbara B. Maniha
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