If it's April, it's National Poetry Month again. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing again. So, here's a little poem dashed off for one of the prompts - a postcard poem.
Smoke-filled cerulean skies rain ash down
onto wind-swept plains, summer heats the spring,
dry days crinkle skin and earth, garden hoses soak
winter’s leavings, a small protection from raging
wildfires, and each drizzle is greeted with joyful
dance and a heartfelt prayer for just a little more.