by Brigit Pegeen KellyThese are the long weeks. The weeks Of waiting. Let them be Longer. Let the days smolder Like the peat slung In plastic sacks by the greenhouse And let the seedlings not rush Into growth but climb the air slowly As if it were a ladder, One small foot at a time. Let the fetid smell of bone meal Be the body unlocking As the river does, slowing to a hazy laze That pulls the boaters in And makes the fish rise up. And As the wide-wheeled yellow tractors Roll along the highway, Stalling traffic in their wakes, And the dust from the playing fields Settles over us like pollen, Like the balls dropping softly Into our mitts, let The willow's love of water— Its dark and beaded rain— Be the only storm we long for.
