Saskatchewan

Dry Summer

The August heat leans from the sun
The wind whispers dry apologies
The wheat droops its heavy heads

Looks to the cracked earth for water
The sun burns each head with its glare
The sun singes the wind’s breath

The dustry wind croaks, maybe tomorrow
The wheat answers, we hope so
The sun glares in silence

The sun drops in the wooded hills
The wind slides away to the east
The whispers echo, maybe tomorrow

Night comes softly with cool fingers
Night says nothing to the earth
Night is a nurse on soft soles

The wind returns before dawn
Does a dance through the wheat
The wind says, I told you so

The wheat turns its heads to the east
The whispering spreads the word around
The scent of rain washes the wind’s face

© Glen Sorestad, 2001
Saskatchewan provincial poet laureate