green all year, where I could not imagine drought
except as an abstract concept.
the dream has granted me a grove
where ocean meets the rain;
persistent, subtle mists, and sprays and spates
in sideways walls of wet.
I wrap myself in plastic, to no avail,
After a while, my face runs with rainy sea, sweat or tears.
Today, at the end of my labored swim up the hill,
first understand that you are
a whirlpool of a raging river,
a cyclone of an endless sky,
a spiral of the code of being.
Lie flat on the ground, the solid, still earth
So let go.