After the rain, the earth waits again
for her lover. In the red clover
a newt grasps the stems — a gasp for the red,
Red as the morning storm in the dawning
Red as the eft in the weft of the grass
Red as the heartbeat drumming in the heat
of August, a guest stealing unshed tears.
Red as the child’s cries, red as surprise.
A head bows to that life, that one small life
in the grass. Words weave, fray and then pass
A spider’s snare left threadbare by the rain.
That one small life, rife with red, red, red.
Image: Eastern newt red eft stage, from Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository