the old tree
has new growth,
though I don’t know why  
it has been forty fortnight
since rain, and
years ago it gave
its last bounty

perchance
some stealthy stubborn root  
found its way to a black, cool pool  
left there from earth’s fickle vibrations
or ancient monsoons, before man
hopefully planted and plowed  

now
the people pray
for heavens to open, again  
with merciful tears, to wash
our soiled skins  

too late
for the pear
to bear sweet fruit  
but not for emerald leaves
to tease the eye
with yesterday’s
sweet song