After Two Weeks Without Rain
When Demeter grew too tired
to keep searching, she trusted herself
to sink down beside the dirt road and cross
one thin leg over the other,
and mourn—not for the dead,
for the living no longer with her.
She’s like me this morning as a muttering surrounds:
tinny ping from seeping gutter-seams;
splats slide off rhododendron leaves;
First mockingbird call. Second.
World quenched momentarily.
Once everyone wakes this morning, once you
wake in your house away from mine,
this rain will have become
invisible difference. I, too,
want to become one of many
filtering drops into earth,
be all that’s damp, settled—the fatigue
of Demeter. Such relief in giving up.
Beige ripples of skirt folding
in beige dust from the road.