The title poem from my new chapbook, We Tempt Our Luck:
We Tempt Our Luck
Where we walk
there’s sun over everything:
a field of purple vetch,
yarrow, the peppery smell
of July. Still heat, still
glinting light, still green
leaves–jagged, feathery–
but the day’s slipped
a little south now;
beneath all, a whisper
of cool.
We know what will come.
The fields lie mowed, the barley
raked in gray-green rows
for the baler. The next field’s
plowed for seeding. The mushroom
backs of cranes move
like shadows, dinosaur
necks stretch down
for bits of grain, insects.
A boy sits in the road
beside them, writing, dreaming
wanting his luck to stay.
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