Polkas

A rice-grain jitter is
drizzling around my ears
I am on a dry mesa
striped in reds and browns
under flashing rebozos that wring history
shimmer like maracas
And now a fertile chant weaves through the square
a stone school with children gathering syllables
They chant and it brings rain through lonesome gullies
fills their bright canteens
They pass anticipation through young lips
The vendors fold their booths

the drizzle
the reverent school chant
the polkas
starting again

This poem was published in The Closed Eye Open as the last entry in Maya’s Micros of May 12, 2021.

Andy Oram
August 9, 2020