(untitled)

    At this time of year
at the rag end of monsoons,
    when the rains trail off
like the dregs of a party,
    when the heat remains
like a sauna stuck on high,
    when clear desert air
is a distant memory
    like a tale once told
by a comforting granny --
    at this time of year
it can be hard to believe
    in desert beauty,
in the comfort of dry heat.
    Once the sky was wide,
not narrowed by constant clouds --
    once mountains were sharp,
not softened by daily rains --
    once washes were crisp
roadbeds through hills and bosques,
    not mushy sand tracks
still damp from last night's runoff --
    once, and once again,
I tell myself, they'll return,
    those days of glory
when deep blue has no edges,
when thornscrub is forever.

Envoy

    I look at the sweat
on my cold glass of iced tea
    and remind myself,
this, too, shall pass in due time,
like these drops that roll down it.

—6 September 2009

A finger exercise in choka, a long pre-classical Japanese form in couplets of 5-7 syllables capped with a final 7, conventionally including one or more tanka envoys. Lightly revised from the version posted on LJ. I managed to include parallelisms per traditional style (though my preference for trinaries over binaries shows through) including some I hope less obvious ones, but not much in the way of pillow words/phrases. Structurally, it's a bit soft -- I was aiming for something trinary on the large scale, but that fell apart. In case it's not obvious, cold drinks don't sweat (much) here when it's dry. A bosque (bos-kay) is a riverine forest, mostly of mesquite, where river = wash = dry most of the year.

---L.