BOTANICA
10.25.20
this should feel good
good like Saguaros at dawn.
Good like Ephedra to tired lips, Ocotillo’s feet on short minds, Opuntia to the hungry.
sure, it’s nice:
small showers to thirsty grounds. Enough to tease the ground with “steady” when the roots still ache for “flow”.
to call it rain is an insult to the river, just like to call it love is a disservice to the heart.
you dipped your toes in and called it swimming. But the damn broke; chains turned cages but no one asked the lion where the thorn was. Instead she limped back to skirts and shirts and therapy appointments.
these mountains once danced green, now they scream dry — i meant what i said, but when you heard monsoon i saw mist. mist-ya, friend.
I’m sorry.