by Sean Patrick Hill
Driving Through Andalusia
What we see you say isn’t ours anymore.
Every river we cross is bled dry,
Let me ask,
I’m as hot as I am hungry.
It’s true what they say about Costa del Sol,
The hills are broken into pieces,
After so many hours of driving I admit
I was thinking just now about Hemingway,
Go ahead. Tell me the hills will go on,
You won’t convince me of anything.
The Good Rain
to my wife
This inner weather is enough
You’ve heard my amateur forecasts
No wonder sleep shocks me
But today the garden is greedy for rain
It’s not wind that ruins your thyme,
Show me your squash blossoms and berries
Tell me again why you love the rain.
Sean Patrick Hill is a freelance writer, naturalist, and teacher living in Portland, Oregon. He is a blogger at Fringe Magazine and Travel Oregon. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Exquisite Corpse, elimae, Alba, diode, Willow Springs, RealPoetik, The Pedestal Magazine, The Battered Suitcase, Unlikely 2.0, The Foliate Oak, Sawbuck, Word Riot and Quarter After Eight. His blog site is theimaginedfield.blogspot.com.
In Posse: Potentially, might be . . .