All around us,
the plants whisper
in dry brittle voices,
“water us, water us.”
there is no water,
and what falls is not wet
but drops of chthonic fireworks,
urban, rural, coastal infernos.
The plants dig and pray to Hades,
and cooler there
than here in this air.
Day One: A trance of rain, ear churn momute.
Day Two: Slide high noontide, sundersthorms plate.
Day Three: Moistly scattered sneers and a few frizzles.
Day Four: Chants of wrinkles, dartly cloudy and chowdery.
Day Five: Humility Poor Boy Talls, Barometer IPA 75%.
Day Six: Moggy, very low viability.
Day Seven: Topical air mass pew point, wind clam.
- Thick hot pine tar air dropping from powerful trees.
- Rosemary, basil, garlic, and spearmint mixing with tales of salt water.
- Soft golden sun boiling over salsa garden.
- Bare feet in wet sand, nibbled by sand crabbed bubbles.
- Plenty of weather to write or not in the forecast. Some pressure to publish sun only.