This Soul Is…
A single, windblown tree
on a grassy plain,
stunted by gales of critical air.
Migrating thoughts glide, bound and graze,
rabbits, antelope, raptors; prey
forager and predator ways.
Whistle trains sift a morning haze.
Fantasies in heat waves
shimmy each lowland blade,
fiery rut of a love affair.
Sliced, ended. A dagger of low light
across a flatland glade,
My soul awaits a cleansing rain.
© 2010 Rita Doyle Roberts