Poem

Once upon a time, I lived in an emerald city where the rains came year around. The me who lived in that land of dream did a little writing. One by one, I am digging out his lines and exposing them to the light of day.

Having gone more than three months without rain here in the desert, this small piece reminds me of that land far, far away.

[Stock image]


Offering

In this place rains follow
one after the other, dark
clouds obscure sky, street
gutters flow with dead leaves,

garbage. A kind of purging
this weather, a purification
in the season of decay. A little
girl plays with leaves

floating on a large puddle
in a gravel parking lot, ignores
the rain flattening her hair, places
white pebbles and a pigeon feather

in a maple leaf, pushes it out
into the lake of her imagination.
A tiny boat carrying treasures. A gust
of wind drowns the vessel and all

its cargo. She picks up her backpack,
jumps into the middle of the puddle,
kicks at the water, and walks away,
singing. After she’s gone,

I retrieve the small white stones
and pigeon feather from the water,
place them in another larger leaf,
set them sailing into the magical

lake, watch the leaf spin slowly
in the breeze. Rain lessens,
wood smoke sweet in the air,
and for a minute I believe.