It is a luxury to pray to the goddess,
dress her with many names and myths,
sequined chains and gold bracelets,
or nothing at all. Young men beg
to be noticed on this semi-arid fringe
of habitation, and some go native
to explore the primitive pulse
in their blood, chant and dance until
exhausted to their knees. They learn
to leave themselves behind in the dust
of December that invades their dreams,
to ethereally escape the hazy delirium
trapped in the bottom of the San Joaquin.
Here we age and cure with each shallow breath,
inhale the earth until our dry skin cracks
like clay flats, like a pomegranate ripening.
It is a luxury to pray, or to reawaken
the forgetful old woman in charge of things.
drycrikjournal 
You really knocked it out of the park with PRAY FOR RAIN, pal. Reminded me of these lines from Pasternak:
For with me remain those without names, The homely, children, and trees: In my utter conquest by them all Is the sole of my victories.
Enjoying the flow of your poetry. It’s like a year-round stream in a dry country.
Max Peters
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