On the walking trail, a breeze reels itself
beneath the heat like a frothed-up tide,
delivers these words like a message
in a bottle—It’s a different generation—
almost as an eye-of-the-storm omen,
promising befores and afters unseen.
See: rain. See: pressure. See: there is a cold
front coming in. And the day has the nerve
to tire itself out with this news. What sort
of generation is this, posed at cliff’s edge,
desperate to inhale the scent of sky-break?
What sort of rain will wash us away? Once,
a flood turned a dirt hill to cooled lava
in the backyard, mucking over the plants,
the toys forgotten during dinner rush.
We saw rain return to earth, steam and soot,
the house a witness to calamity. Thought
our best things to be gone. But as the next
day’s heat nursed the water from the soil,
there they were—our dolls and trucks,
their plastic still glimmering with new.