DRY CRIK Journal

she waves and says
somewhere south
of the Chesapeake –

no hurricane, thunderstorm nor
tornadic conditions on the colored map
beneath her palm – just plain old rain.

No drizzling mist nor frolicky burst
that rainbows spring from, but old,
re-circulated passion from Noah’s flood –

steady, solid stuff I picture
as a dark gray blur of cats & dogs
good sense observes from a shed,

as I wait for a peek at the Pacific
jet stream, for any shade of green
along the eastern San Joaquin –

willing to do penance, even
something religious or barbaric
for a generic nuisance rain

to hold these leaves of grass
alive within me – Oh, but
how I’d take it plain!