No frost, morning warm—
flotilla of round clouds,
a raft of ships scouting
for a dark fleet, big guns
on the horizon. A welcome
invasion of the flesh:
earth, roots, bark, blade
and mind’s eye open—yet
now afraid of a real rain,
to be drunk with it—
to let go and be ravaged
at last, to turn loose the dry
and dusty lines of poetry,
my plodding momentum tied
to bare dirt and empty skies—
afraid to howl, to learn
the language of the gods,
to speak in tongues
and dance with trees
far from my secure delirium,
these years of drought.
drycrikjournal 