Return of the Prodigal

By Charles Wright

Now comes summer, water clear, clouds heaving with weeping.

Tall grasses are silver-veined.

Little puddles of sunlight collect

                                                in the low places deep in the woods.


Lupine and paintbrush stoic in the ditch weed,

                                                larch rust a smear on the mountainside.


No light on the ridgeline.

Zodiac pinwheels across the heavens,

                                                bat feint under Gemini.