Hatagoya's Desk

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Ninety-five Days

by David Chorlton

The last time was a sprinkle.
Just enough
to tease flowers
out of the saguaro, and to wet
the air for arriving
doves.
         We don’t know
when we turn a faucet
where the water comes from
any more, while on the mountain
cholla needles shine
with thirst.
                It’s been ninety-five
dawns with scarcely
a cloud. But it helps to be
an animal to know
how dry the days have been:
                                             to wake
at dusk and wander. To remember
hidden springs. And when
they no longer flow
to climb
            up to the ridgeline
and lick salt
from the rim of the moon.

No comments:

Post a Comment