IDES OF SEPTEMBER

The story starts where the weather left us
blown off course, or digging out from under
too much of a good thing gone bad, where
a writer develops raw-boned characters
to shape the real deal. Dad was shipping
thin steers the day I was born in the rain,
come too late to help. Since, my dry skin
craves a storm, cold raindrops blurring eyes
to cry with joy or pain—for my flesh
to rise and grin at God over and over again.