Moisture drenches earth,
its silver speech everywhere,
reminds me of tree rings and floods,
even what is written
in tragedy. Water pools
in planted beds, cone flowers and zinnias
stand tall, sopped pansies
give up, faces pinch
down in mud. I step outside,
carboniferous heat hits me, lungs suck
in unfamiliar moisture.
The creeping thyme exudes the fragrance
of English summers.
Whose gentle step crushed
this herb to give off such perfume:
the twin skunks who dance
in our moonlight,
the raccoon heading to the fish pond?
Just another drought year
in this planet’s trajectory and pull.
Sacramento Valley, 2015
