Sing me a dry song, something
somewhere else you learned to chant
under your breath. Mesmerizing,

they stand half-dressed in morning light
in a pool of golden leaves, Solstice
peeking low under the door, showing just

enough bark that I forget the words to this
chorus of sycamores, my dancing winter
nymphs trying-on new outfits—posing,

having fun showing me what I have not seen.
Sing me your dry song, share the mantra
of the plodding before they prove:

a drought can be beautiful and soothing.
But better yet, bring me a hard rain, so
we can get naked and start over again.

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