Poetry

In seven days
we’ll call this last July,
and still the prairie grass
stands higher than the faded corn.

My daughter’s once-a-farmhouse
occupies high ground
overlooking Granger, Iowa
where twin water towers
labeled—HOT
and COLD
in block print red and blue
attest to Midwest humor
that has a way of sneaking up on you
like the daddy-long-legs
who crosses a patch of parched garden
to wear my empty sandal.
Three lightning rods
straddle the peak of the pointed roof
appearing to challenge God.
We watch the sky—
searching the horizon for thunderheads
to spark the metal.

This time last year
we spread out blueprints
from her husband’s flooded office
in Des Moines
across the split-rail fence
to dry.
Today we draw a carefully constructed plan
scaled in inches—
a prayer for rain

but not too much.

Regina Murray Brault lives in Burlington, Vt.