Nothing has to take.
The veins run below it all.
Above, the amber fields’ sprawl
tell tales and quake.
The fires are far away
I, you, we thought. It’s facile,
this tantrum, this denial.
What’s left is right spewing dismay.
The air’s so stagnant, everyone
remembers summer’s come early.
The southern strategy will turn chilly
for them, to them – today’s addiction.
Last year, there was a NaPoWriMo prompt to write an opposite poem. I stumbled on a poem called Bernal Hill by Randall Mann, couple of days back and took a liking to it. I use the poem’s structure including using abba rhyme pattern, but veered on the theme.