fell nothing like the prediction
of thunder storm, mere dots
spot the windshield, no soft drum
on skylight. The scientists say we should
avoid the word drought, what we feel
is aridification, like taking the wet sheet
to the line in the vanishing mist of mid-summer
and slowly something dries, something
that won’t snap sharply in the windless night.
The skin of an old miner creasing.
They could just say that.
The earth worm crawling out of a flood
onto pavement that shrivels when the sun
returns, vanilla bean, a
line on concrete.
—
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who maintains a number of gardens – for butterflies, vegetables, and pollinators. Her work appears widely in journals and nine books, including One Bent Tree which highlights trees she has planted, loved, or worries about. triciaknoll.com
