They Will Go On
The western horizon is still lightning blue.
To the east, everything is side-of-the-bridge grey.
I am patient as trees and flowers, desert cacti.
The grandkids hide inside with swollen eyes
and I want the rain to come quick, slap
their pale necks. I’ve counted the summers left
and the young should take this rain beside me
as I took father’s wheat, corn, and whole bloody harvest.
I roll one more September cigarette,
Summer coughs her last cough;
a dribble from which the children hide,
stay dry while rain loosens the soil.