“Will the hills turn green again?” She asks.
Flat on my back, my tongue dodges
dental utensils: mirror, suction
and cavitron finding a nerve
as I turn my wince into a grin
and gargle, “Yes, they just need rain.”
This old dry flesh and all its crumbling
skeletons shedding bark and limbs
await our ballyhooed first
winter storm on the first of March.
Ricocheting between extremes,
nothing is normal, our only certainty:
rebirth, rejuvenation, the miracle
of earth and water. To her I wink,
“We may even have flowers.”
drycrikjournal 