Tuesday’s Poem

After the rain,

grass crickets

sing how drops sit

in memory there

on the blades.

Antidote’s boredom

flash the sound like

strobe ventriloquist.

How small those hands

reaching from pooled water;

how tiny the fingers of the rain.

And a million little fruiting bodies

hats, umbrellas, houses

only need the gift of water

to own the earth.

Beading now, drying

what becomes of the

rivulets we followed all day?

Down to the lake

where they hold  – fingers twining –

a disco of frogs.