The Prayers of the Saints

The air smells
Of wet creekbed
And honeysuckle
Freshly cut grass
And dandelions
The heat off the pavement
Meets the rich green
Leaves waving
In the air,
Glad to be alive
The horse whinnies
Because the clover
Is deep and sweet
The clouds swell with
A Downy scented rain
Even though it doesn't touch
The ground
I smell it
The barn wood still smells
Musky wet
A reminder of the hard, cold, wet
The well water drips from the
Garden hose
Rich with an iron smell
That tempts the tongue
A breeze blows in
From the river
A fox has been there
I know that smell
Surely it must be
The Prayers of the Saints
All these glorious
The angels must be
Pouring them out