Hot Dry Days

An unachievable
Dark and dusty blue
Is clustered into Oregon Grapes
On September’s colored branch
Guarded behind the stabbing pain
Of sharp dry needles, molded
Into short pointed fingers
Stationed along the warped edge
Of little brittle red and brown leaves
Dropped from the protective sweater
Of a young and tender plant
Food favored by deer

The bracken has given up green
For parched yellow in late summer
And waits in shrinking form and detail
For water to play its miracle
From passing clouds or tending gardeners
It really doesn’t matter
No thanks is ever whispered
Just a change from yellow to green
No stories of colorful marches
Back to here from deaths edge
The threshold that waits for bracken
Returning it to the dirt that dreamed