Untitled by Julia Douglas
Here there is an old burrow,
plowed under the rotted red shed;
a yellowjacket hovering
beside the dry brick wall, and
swollen wood cool
from yesterday’s downpour.
The yard is covered in early yellow leaves
from the Liriodendron, which hasn’t flowered
in so long it forgot it was supposed
to flower at all. Between the tree and the fresh
young azaleas, a robin slowly hops before
flying away: there is nothing to eat.
Over half the orange lilies are still closed by midday
and the spider web
on the fencepost
lies empty.
Hidden in the trees,
the cicadas shake their abdomens
and sing.
