The drought is over. You can see
the wet leaves on the wet sidewalk.
They look like the petals we wore for clothes
when we were kids. That morning we
held hands, while the morning flowers impeached
a more unnecessary presence from the earth
than us. The egg, the leaf that curled
like your young tongue, the tomato
un-sighed for and far, far too red,
left far too long and on the far-too-long-and-withered vine—
left so unsuppressed.
Yes, all the grass is wet and green again.
The land is lucid, ripe.
I was nine, you were ten.
© Jim Kleinhenz
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
The drought is over. You can see
the wet leaves on the wet sidewalk.
They look like the petals we wore for clothes
when we were kids. That morning we
held hands, while the morning flowers impeached
a more unnecessary presence from the earth
than us. The egg, the leaf that curled
like your young tongue, the tomato
un-sighed for and far, far too red,
left far too long and on the far-too-long-and-withered vine—
left so unsuppressed.
Yes, all the grass is wet and green again.
The land is lucid, ripe.
I was nine, you were ten.
© Jim Kleinhenz