Creole

Suzanne Kort

The seasons are hard put to find
a way of announcing themselves in this lime
colored valley where morning mist as hot,
evanescent as those who live

here declines to desist entirely,
for few cycles come to completion between
these lazy hills, choosing to thicken instead
on the sun the dust the syrup of

this air into a haze that meanders
down the streets, edible, waving
back at itself at semaphores, having
the grace to ascend, wreathlike,

when it remembers in time
for one of our sultry black-eyed sunsets
to the top of the Avila where it
shimmers and simmers till dawn. Nothing
begins here, or ends.

Copyright © Suzanne Kort