The earth like a clean sheet waits
for dawn through cold, gray cumulous
stacked atop hillsides of bare, dark clay
after a thunderstorm’s harsh scouring—
each thin blade stimulated, invigorated
to meet tomorrow with alacrity,
reckless grins upon every face
and we, foolishly, have no choice
but to imitate the mob’s delight
and forget the dry for a moment
to consider the range of this miracle—
of our goddess-come-home-late
and gone-so-long we have forgotten
what she looks like—what we
have taken for granted, and why.
drycrikjournal 
Beautiful.
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