At the salty rim we long for
raindrops, umbrella-shaped
dancing on a picnic plate,
settling down the dust
in their hurry to spill old water
into rusty tanks, surprising clover
from ceded ground.
The same precious well will mount
on the same well-founded wind
until it has ample cause to fall again
and again, yielding daffodils.
On Friday we cried for too much.
On Saturday we cried for far too little.
We are surprised when things happen
over and over again.
It will rain.
Until then, the talk is all of cloud
with a chance, perhaps, of grace
or an old ache out of the blue
opening on someone’s face.