Lord, I missed rain. This isn't a title, merely a statement of fact.
After weeks of deciding how to spend each breath--
do I want to walk today, or sing?--
the light curtain drew its soft shape
over my parched face.
Cold cloud on the palette is the most precious
previously-lived newness,
when all hands had abandoned hope
of the things we knew, one returned.
Pearled memory hangs, capturing dirt,
smoke, regret,
fouling itself for our sake:
for a clear breath,
for a stretch of road where
velvet deer cross, edges crisp
against forgotten orchards.
And neighbors rise out of what was haze,
palms up to feel the fabric
of our land
while it still grows.
