Sirocco The hot winds blow northwards. Laboring hearts adapt to a slow-burning rhythm. Nights find you breathing harder, dreaming languid dreams dipped in Saharan orange. Snow melts into puddles, makes little rapids in the gullies. Shy bright green unfolds on hitherto barren winter stalks, like young girls succumbing to the whispered promise of swelter, not heeding either calendar or caution. Cars covered in red sand use the roads like go-cart runs. An early tulip pushes through heavy slush, a sense of unseemliness in the air. On a park bench two grey heads, woolen scarves undone daringly, galoshes protecting warm shoes. Old hands stripped of thick gloves, he holds hers and bends over them as far as his stiff back gives him leave. The Sirocco will hold a few days.
About the Author: Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her fifth poetry collection, DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS, will be published by Kelsay Books in July 2022. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Dead Leaves and Landscape” (2021)
As It Ought To Be 