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 vineβ left so unsuppressed.
Yes, all the grass is wet and green again. The land is lucid, ripe. I was nine, you were ten.