It falls in fits
Graying the already short days,
and landing with a musical pluck
into the standing puddles of water in my garden.
My bike kicks up tsunamis
The roof is always drumming.
Its rhythm sings to me at night,
and I sleep deeply.
I dream of dancing sculptures
and of sleeping through my friend's wedding and missing all the cake.
This morning, I tiptoed through the muddy garden to pick some parsley
and found that its stems had turned to green muck.
The plant was rotting in the ground, sunk in a puddle.
Some of its leaves were still fresh and crisp
and I combed through the mess,
taking what I could save
I shredded it for a Tuscan Bean salad
that my lover took to the studio today.
I left what remained of the parsley
reaching up out of its puddle,
struggling to stand upright in the face of so many falling drops.
What can you expect of a Mediterranean plant, after all?
It was meant to grow in places that are bathed in hours of sun,
in dry, cracked soil, summer-split into the mesas of a desert.
Under the harshest of conditions, it would live out its life
eking out one drop of water after another
and saving them in its veins like a most precious jewel.
But this long rainy winter
warm as it is
has drowned this desert plant with too much wealth.
While my gray and soaking city
is ready to overflow
with such a blessing.
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