by Emily Benson
Rainwater piles up at the foundation Melting the mud and clay Into treacherous sinkholes The branches of the Live Oak are slick and green, Dripping, ball moss sprouts ferocious tendrils While the vibrant rooster of mysterious origins Which appeared two days ago Hides from this late-winter deluge And the raccoons on the roof are quiet in the chill nights Down by the wild rushing creek The prickly pears gulp what they can But the little lime lizards are nowhere to be seen Not enough heat in their rocks without sun And while the swans with their great white wings Glide the lake unconcerned, The pigeons and I are miserable ____
Emily Benson (she/her) writes poems of humanity, longing, and nature. She lives in Western New York with her husband and two sons. Ms. Benson has previously been published by The Esthetic Apostle, Unstamatic, Airlie Press, Five Minutes, High Shelf Press, Sad Girls Club Literary Blog, and in Hey, I’m Alive Magazine. Her work can be found at www.emilybensonpoet.com.