By Betsy K. Brown
heat I
our sprinkler at dawn
waves bright fingers of water
toward the stone-dry sky
heat II
baby lemon tree
sleeps beneath her summer tarp
dreams of future fruit
heat III
dark Serrano leaf
drinks the sun like ambrosia
a staid desert god
haboob I
lightning, summer’s script
writes its song across the sky
thunder’s drums reply
haboob II
dusty desert clouds
turn the earth a brick-red haze
finally, the rain
haboob III
shards of palms litter
storm-swept streets. Nearby, roots-up,
torn aleppo pine
birds I
knocking from inside
a lone saguaro cactus
in a hole, two eyes
birds II
sprouting sunflowers—
just three grew; remaining soil
pocked with pecks of birds
birds III
hens nip at the weeds
foraging sweet ants to eat
spurning bags of feed
distance I
postcard in our box,
ragged from a rugged trip—
a worn desert dove
distance II
daughter through the phone
shouts softly, “wish I were there”
Grand Canyon echoes
Betsy K. Brown is a poet, essayist, and long-time educator. Her work has appeared in many outlets, including Plough Quarterly, First Things, New Ohio Review, and AWP's The Writer's Notebook. She is a poetry editor for the Anselm Society and the author of City Nave and Leading a Seminar on Frankenstein. She lives with her husband and son in Arizona. You can read more of her work and contact her at betsykbrown.com.