October 5, 2013
The ground swells with the storm,
penetrates to granite rock
leaking rivulets in predictable places
and I want more to flood memory
of the dry years, smooth their track
chiseled in the walls of my skull, yet
outside myself: a perfect miracle
as the earth takes slow swallows first.
I am this place despite my selfishness,
my impatience and vengeful desire
to forever purge this drought
as my flesh comes slowly back to life.
‘I am this place despite my selfishness’ – I simply love this line . . . Fine poem!
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Thank you, Peter. Some us are never quite satisfied, it seems, despite our good fortune. It takes time to gain perspective and the demanding dry years yet hang just over my shoulder. A little self-chastisement, me thinks.
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The drought is 1,800 miles behind me and I still have some anxiety every time I turn on a faucet.
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Thanks, Caleb. Glad to hear that I’m not the only one afflicted.
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Love this one. “my flesh comes slowly back to life” immediately bought to mind a plant and the anticipation of waiting for it to flower and sow seeds of new life.
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Of course I’d like to dismiss the drought completely, and immediately, but nature just doesn’t work that way. It takes awhile.
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