Rain? Are you touching me now?
I thought I felt rain on my shoulder.
The smell of mushrooms bursting,
thin skinned puff balls blowing
grey smoke in the dry afternoon.
The acrid smell of Comet cleanser and baking soda.
She promises rain, but tastes like perspiration.
I kissed her fingers. Khaki tan and soft.
And it seemed the sun exploded in my eyes.
Turn this over in your heart she says,
and she says there is no price on dusk today.
Down, damned and drained I tease each
lowering cloud with lidded glances
and an Elvis Presley snarl.
Brown needles drop off the sargeant juniper.
Starving bonsai: what is your peace now?
Giving up, I don't even cut back the bamboo anymore.
And the arid heat is murder here, here on
the banks of the slow Oconee,
here we all sing "summertime...."
She cat licks my left ear lobe.
Breathes into the soft lymphatic skin.
And the vibrations curl, shimmy and shag.
Are you touching me now?
And the cumulus thunder shouts,
pregnant black clouds roll over and foal.
And suddenly, as parched as I was one second before,
here I am, drenched and laughing,
finally, finally my Georgia sky became itself again,
and the late spring rain storms came as promised.
She holds me close, asks if I can smell the grass
turning green again, if I can feel the branches
gathering up all the water they can....
and I just say yes, yes I can.
