The heat of the night
left a scorched dawn.
Crimson and gold flames
marched across earth’s brow.
Silence held court
over insect and birdsong.
Canons blew measured beats
throughout the night to face
ceasefire at dawn.
Even the cicadas are silenced
under the strain of clouds
threatening a refrain of rain
over and over and over again.
The battlefield of flowers
hold the whispered beat
of life-sounds’ defeat.
There is a beauty to such calm
where life is pinned down
to lie in wait for safe return
of cooler days and nights.
One could choose weariness.
One could choose delight.
annarino writes 