I’ve worked hard on my imperfections:
hobbled anger to the point of giving up
my passion. The drought has beat me up
into a zombie retracing small circles
from house to barn for hay to cattle
and back home for years, it seems.
I gathered ghosts and local wild gods
to hope upon a waxing moon for rain,
for a superfluous verdancy to untrack me,
clear the air and make mud of dust—
it’s beginning now, a standing ovation
of applause upon a metal roof.