Drought
It never rains, and the garden doesn't care.
Trees grown shiny leaves, bloom fuschia,
purple, white, the jasmine prospers
as if water kissed it every morning.
It's the water table ‚ it soaks up.
City of Oakland, elevation 42 feet.
I'm dry and empty, just transplanted
to new soil, where pine grows by palm
grows by cactus. My roots don't take.
I miss summer rain, watching sheets
come down, from the balcony, or warm
under blankets woken by rumble of thunder.
Lightning streaking fuschia, purple, white.
They say it's the season: summer's dry.
But I'm thirsty now, relief's a long time coming,
months before I can walk outside, lift
my head, see familiar clouds, and drink.