In such a dry year I tire of saying how
old and brown this earth looks to me.
Only in my thoughts can I add the
badly needed color that comes from
heavy December soakings.
The April shower promise has been
forgotten again; the hope of puffed juicy
tomatoes hanging from wire baskets
in August is only mind play. My neighbors
read magazines about travel instead,
while the murmurings of relocating
to a land of cool and wet reveal
a sentiment lying just
below the thirsty surface of each of us.
None can guess whether the septillions
of gallons might come to keep
the golden state damp. The plastic
bottles–we’ve chunked so many
lovely-handled ones into the recycle bins;
might our hands again reach around
such handles to spill a drizzle at will.
I watch the forest for the moment the
single drop of waterlessness begins.
How can one say how bad things might
become, when the blue-sky enemy
already surrounds us everywhere.