For many years I waded through waist-high grass
Balancing this wide, empty pail on my head
waiting patiently throughout
for the sparse clouds - at last!
Sprinkling their swollen dread
through my many arms, stretched out
They gathered and buffooned above me
To irrigate the ancient prairie.

Thousands of unturned acres
drank up my tendency to the land
from the reservoirs residing
within me like open hands.
I remember six annual cycles
of lonesome, diligent drought
when the heat of god's light
dried even my memories out.

This August arrived inconspicuously
as a thicket of stormy pillows
roared deeply into the scene
From just the apex of the peeling cliffs
Signaling that they could see.

And they rolled towards me.
The closer they got,
The smaller we seemed
as the fields gazed together
at what felt like a dream
Then, far too late,
I realized with dismay
That I could not hold so much
Not in this form; not all in one day

I'd have to dig wells into the earth
Just to taste for acidity
And without any support
I'd need to track our own fecundity
Because some grounds would be
Too thick with clay:
The gift would be pointless
If I just let it drain away.

So as the storm roared onto us,
I recited the prayer of healing
And coughed out that blissful laugh
As my body lost all its feeling,
boring into the ground,
spreading a hundred hectares
the widest I could manage
while my pace was hastened:
A young crater for new life.
Your great wasted basin.