SOUTH WIND, CLEAR SKY 

 

Red hot Mama,

She’s an active volcano,

Though not likely to erupt, so they say—

Long thin white clouds wisping on the south wind,

Looking like the ghosts of pods and their peas,

Little white peas just peeping over the edge of their canoes.

She’s molten red, with her white veins bulging from her neck,

Far above what’s below, far below what’s above,

Green, blue, everything in between.

Will she blow? Who knows?

Until then she’s serene:

South wind, clear sky,

Myriads of ghost peas in ghost pods passing by.