Sickly Aspens

Summer's heat smothers, twisting, pressing, sticky and thick.

Hawks careen through the sky, taunting me like the dreams that I hold.

Yes - it's great to think about, but keep your head out of the clouds, dreamer.

Just out of reach.

Aspens on death row remind me.

Disease begins within, covert.

Then blossoming, cracking, and splintering health until death flourishes.

Perhaps if I had noticed sooner,

or been a little wiser,

Perhaps then I wouldn't be lying here, so sickly and weary,

weary and sick,

like the aspens.