Humid

The dandelion mouths dip

amidst fields, hazy and wet

while a few little birdies,

such small blimps, flit about

all the tender tendrils.

Sitting adirondack on a porch

and listening to the pink hour

when sprinklers buzz and bats

swoop and holler, for once

I wish it possible to travel

by telephone to you,

or whoever is still

there on the line.

So, I sing sometimes

the love call of vegetables

for eyes that emanate

the quiet light of tiny hospitals

where, maybe, we all feel

better.

Jarrod J. Annis

jarrodjannis[at]gmail[dot]com