Drizzle in the Flint Hills / Linda Lobmeyer
If scars were drizzle and memories
the freeze, could I scrape a path
of vision on my life’s windshield?
Could the defrost dissolve the mists
of pain that stick as I drive?
Will this highway wind itself into spring?
The sleet is pelting
and frosting the tallgrass
white, over the red and
tan of pre-spring.
Like me, it braves the falling
past with a deep root that spreads itself
treelike under the earth. It’s
the only way to stand, when
there’s no telling what the wind will bring.
Dig deep, and grow where it’s always warm.
Only expose your tender green to
the love of May. And when you are grown,
you can marry the sky.
Drizzle in the Flint Hills: Copyright 2021 by Linda Lobmeyer. All rights reserved.
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