Inside a shell, there was a sea
holding all the world’s blue waters.
But it was also half full of drought.
All she’d ever known was drought,
but ear to the shell, she heard the sea,
the circling cadence of the waters.
Caroline released the waters
and left a shell now full of drought
and threw it deep into the sea.
Sea waters stall the birth of drought.
To Call the Goddess
The old man lost faith in rain,
stopped praying, whispered soft,
I’ve had enough. I give.
How many poems can you give,
brother, to call the goddess of the rain?
A shadow in a sheep’s clothes, soft
wings flutter, a sound so soft
you stop the car, pull over and give
a listen to the whistle of a train.
To hear the rain fall soft again? I’ll give.
I’ll Race the Fiercest Gulls
How much time could you borrow to put off
the moment when you’ll go tomorrow?
The sound of earthquakes will reverberate
across saffron-tinged plateaus tomorrow.
Despite the coming squall, will the sky still
fill with pepper-colored crows tomorrow?
Through dizzying emporiums, I’ll hunt
the rare rust-colored rose tomorrow.
I’ll row this boat and race the fiercest gulls
across the Gulf of Mexico tomorrow.
I’ll grind my glass and polish brass to see
as far as Galileo tomorrow.
In tendrils of light across the night, I’ll
write my name to guide you home tomorrow.
Ghazal for a Nearly Forgotten Rain Goddess
Wilderness is a circus ride; I jump
silver turnstiles and dodge my fare tonight.
Somewhere on the withered plains, coyotes
howl and cry as they leave their lairs tonight.
Lonely weather satellites trek all through
the salted skies like robot prayers tonight.
You claim constellations for forgotten
nations on dusty roads we share tonight.
Your voice, mellifluous, you whisper and
name the hurricane wind-stirred air tonight.
Come thunder and southern lightning storms we
rejoice, Let rainfall be our heir tonight.