Misted fog fading the mango trees, green, into the layered gray sky,
you hear applause, distant, from the drip-drop dripping of rain falling snow
slow and tricked into trickling full the cistern below the front porch.
You wear your flannel, the sleeves rolled, because it holds back the (relative) cold
(your skin forgot warm needs no coat, and couldn’t remember cool fall sweaters
folded twice at the wrist like your jeans at the ankle).
The road’s a river —black pavement of controlled current’s gravity,
and God knows it flows. It flows, and kids that giggle at a dip in the road
know (they call to heaven for more water).
A Moveable Hunger 