everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk
and twigs hug the curb
as they float down the street.

tomorrow sand will appear
at the edges of the road.

I haven't
watered my garden
in over a week.

now spear shaped tendrils
of liquid hydrogen dioxide
plummet down at
twenty two miles per hour
making patterns across the
wet surface of the earth.

in the bright spots
rain drop splashes
stumble back and forth
across the dance floor
like cymbal crashes.

wasps,
grounded
by wet wings,
begin their slumber
early,
jaws locked,
legs dangling
off the stem of a flower
whose petals are
battered and wet
like fry ready fish.

the newly
pregnant
ocean
swells unnoticeably.

streams emerge,
rivers rob banks,
puddles form
around
orangeskin pores;

and the
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk.