110 degrees. August. The valley bakes
Like a loaf of bread in a brick oven.
Tomorrow is a whisper and today is sweat.
Standing under a harsh sun,
I say my name aloud
To remind the valley of who I am,
And who I am not.
You can hear them talking as they pass.
The season is passing, too.
And here below, on Earth,
We go on loving, living, being.
But sorrow, too.
Yes, of course, sorrow, too.
It’s been years now
Since my young son left this Earth.