DECEMBER 14, 2021

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.