One Minute Past High Sun
by David Richard Miller

The earth must thunder in a pitch so low
One cannot hear when frosts ebb and flow.
Hills must groan in a haunted way
When ice cleaves sand from silt and clay.

In the roadway there is the unheard rumble 
Of another spring freeing yellow gravel.
Black clods crackle, dry and crumble.
In fields, pedons quietly travel. 

And one minute past high sun,
A silent voice calls from everywhere.
“There is work that must be done.”
Winter vanishes into thin air.


David Miller lives in rural Eastern Iowa where he writes, gardens, and complains.