I forget sometimes the ground’s thirst.

Remember only when the rain’s held off

a few days later than they said.

It’s often dusk when I traipse in bare feet,

feel what the sun has left in the paving

and greet the rain barrel with a nod.

I let the bound water surge into the can.

A kindness I feel. Something stored

against the drought. I bless the basil first,

let leaves curl down under brief cascades.

The plants release a rich smoke of scent.

I drift spray to where I think it’s missed.

A rose gives up frayed petals in the dark.

Sunflowers bow a little deeper at the neck.

I push back against the summer’s end.