in which rainless becomes rainlessness

We prepare for drought

as a state of mind dispatching

pockets of thought

inwards.

 

Rainlessness sees the garden

green and thriving

for now, looking out

there are plants tugging

my sleeve

 

Still I stand

a pause while rain goes

elsewhere and the long

dry sucks our laughter away

 

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a day

just a day, though the date pools

reflections,  landscapes of parents

clustering on the edges of this month

like a hundred collages constructed

from images left behind

in the cameras of memory:

a gesture or laugh

cakes, gifts, birthdays

signifying days we came

together as more than

just ourselves

 

We should have said

be the people you want to be

who we, always their children

thought we knew
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in which everything turns

In the middle of the afternoon

rain poured down in buckets

just as we’d given up, decided

in fact, drought was here again.

 

A torrent of water flew down

like bird-words shrieking and cavorting

in a wild sky turned grey

even as everything turned:

 

colour returned to grass as each

leaf trembled in relief; I saw the ground

breathe deep,  seedlings become

plants, two sycamores

 

ten cypresses,  shaken with

delight. Only the roses drooped,

their vibrancy caught in a drama

of pain, heads bent to avoid drowning.

 

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Roses

Impossible to write roses.

 

(Windscribes from the past

have caught their scents

and sent them

to write themselves).

 

I rested

their jagged old claws

in water for over a week

in the nesting season

 

wise portia, adelaide

r. harisonii and friends

and here they are

 

as if they

understood that words

from the past

take root

and grow

though embellished

with thought

 

 

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