by Lara Dolphin
On a quiet Shanksville farm, I finish
bucking hay then set a frail of peaches
in the dooryard.
There is no relief, no getting over this heat,
so I settle down and stare into the sky
past the clouds through which
you could not see your way.
I fold my hands and speak to God.
Your souls could not be hijacked.
They go on forever like a summer’s
garden growing wild in a place
where autumn cannot reach.
published by The Bangalore Review