after a dry winter, after I'd packed my raincoats
and umbrellas in the box marked "winter,"
placed it in the garage on top of the boxes
marked "Christmas." Christmas can't come too soon,
even if Easter's only just here. It's all arrival,
arising, like this morning's street flood--by noon
it was gone, gone up to sit in heaven, via the slow-moving
flood drains. Going into the dark earth before finding
light again. My flower seeds haven't sprouted yet.
Next season, I'll approach everything with more
earnestness. I won't speed-read the daily
scripture. I will stand aright,
a flower waiting for (more) rain.