Nancy: The grass rolls in waves under the wind and makes a background for daydreams, for the stories of seal women, for the voices as I row, row in the green saying "tell me, tell me".
The Tossing Surfy Green Of It
Frothing foamy July
wind shaped grassy sea
green surging July
Oh paint me July
paint me a small gray boat
paint me rowing July
Paint me the darting, the silver
the mystery. Paint me
as I lift and drift
with the wind
with the surge of July
Paint what you can't see:
how the sea whispers
how it surges, how I lean forward
Alan: The dog days of summer can be downright mangy. Just when the summer folk arrive, we begin to long for fall.
Whatever happened to the vaunted blue dome?
To the proud empyrean?
This sky is gray to meaningless.
Sure, the overcast has a name,
lighter and darker patches their local cause.
Sure, it comes from yesterday
and evolves toward tomorrow.
But the sky is too big; it glares over this wavering line of road
that runs through the thick woods and wide swamps of July.
It sits down heavily among the treetops
as fog, fills the pores of the mind
without purpose or intent.
Nimbo-stratus? That could be it.
The sky, amused at our presumption,
settles in like a sweaty new neighbor
who announces, “My little bit of heaven,”
and determines to stay.
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