drycrikjournal

This is not the end, of course—
we promise ourselves another day
when earthen hills turn wild with color,

cattle fat. We search photographs
for details begging to come alive again.
We circle back to bring them with us.

This dusty trail goes on and on,
and yet there are places the earth grins
defiantly in the draws and north slopes

thin with spears of green, curled by frost,
reaching gleefully for the warm Solstice—
unafraid of the future, unafraid of us.

Sing me a dry song, something
somewhere else you learned to chant
under your breath. Mesmerizing,

they stand half-dressed in morning light
in a pool of golden leaves, Solstice
peeking low under the door, showing just

enough bark that I forget the words to this
chorus of sycamores, my dancing winter
nymphs trying-on new outfits—posing,

having fun showing me what I have not seen.
Sing me your dry song, share the mantra
of the plodding before they prove:

a drought can be beautiful and soothing.
But better yet, bring me a hard rain, so
we can get naked and start over again.

Christmas Eve, a veil of dust
hangs and hesitates as if waiting
for a southern gust before the call

of gravity—before falling back
into the same soft groove
cut by hooves to water.

Each particle of time grows
smaller with stirring, forgets who
it was to look down and around

for a friend, wanting to remain—
to settle back into another moment
upon the earth with a little rain.