the river is a sluggish trickle.
You have sucked the water table
to a bitter stain and now your acres grow barren.
Press your lips against damp rock,
licking at a memory of abundance.
There will be no relief for your parched tongue
while your mouth is mumbling
mantras from a foreign climate,
your feet stumbling a rain dance
meant for a different sky.
You can wait with cupped hands
but when it comes, water will spill between your fingers
and wash away the last of your estate like ashes.
In the dry that follows,
you will still be thirsty.
you can set off to find a fresh spring.
Travel light for a long journey.
Try camping by a small circle of green in the desert
and this time
learn from the land.
Just north in the Wet
rain falls like gravel for weeks.
Roads wash out and trap you on high ground,
drains choke, paper curls,
your clothes grow mold between wash and wear,
your skin prunes to an alien organ, overwhelmed by
too much water for the cleared land where
it pools, then erodes in its rush to the sea.
But the forest soaks it up, lush and glorious,
singing in the mud relentlessly
reaching back towards you generously
growing over the edges you’ve tried to define
and reclaiming territory meant for monsoon.