Life dries up and the dark earth cracks,
crumbles back into its open mouth,
stifling a dusty gasp. Already, I have
forgotten focus, how exactly each detail
hung on the moment, on my half-delirious
plodding one-day-at-a-time for years—
photographs no one wants to share.
But when life rains from the sky,
germinates and steams with spring,
I become an April fool inhaling
as much as I can, storing the miracle
in my veins until I become it,
ultimately. No alabaster walls for me,
no perfect city. Let me laze among
my gods: the water and the weeds.