Summer in Iowa

Carissa Brown

In summer when the wind blows-
a dry, blazing wind like the gust of heat
hitting me full in the face, stinging my eyes
as I pull a sheet of cookies from the oven-
the corn ripples for miles, a stormy sea
with waves of green and gold.

The ripening corn brings ripening weather.
Sleepless nights spent pacing the basement floor,
wind howling and shaking the house,
rain slamming into windowpanes,
hail pummeling the roof like pounding fists.

Driving an empty stretch of highway
earth and sky fade into each other
like chocolate frosting on Devil’s Food cake.
A flash of lightning rips through the sky
like a spotlight shining on a giant funnel,
a vacuum of cloud inhaling the countryside.

Dreary days spent sifting the aftermath-
debris strewn across the lawn like
litter tossed carelessly from a speeding car.
My swingset sprawled across the neighbor’s lawn,
twisted tighter than a fresh baked pretzel.

Summer in Iowa rushes by like the sound
of a speeding train. Natives live from night to night
holding their breath against the devastation,
waiting until the cessation of storm
to exhale with the force of a cyclone.

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