Poetry & Other Writing

The Days Pass, Heated

I water wilting plants,
consider how the seasons tilt
in this new age we’ve made,
unroll the hose, watch insects rushing

to wet pools. I consider
my back fence, the possums, squirrels,
and feral cats, the raucous crows
who use it, running through

dense maple leaves. I consider thirst
and buy a water fountain for them;
it’s said in 30 years there will be food
and water riots.

My hands are scented
with the urgent hopes of new-planted herbs.