In heat spell before ground swell,
trembling, a woman goes pillar to post
for horse-trots of drops that spell likes robbers.
Dust flying mildew against her veins, surging in damp linen,
like dermis of wet mongrels.
For the volley on asbestos.
“We’ll find some place good.”
Divination in gemstones and a witching rod.
Like the old rain man dowsing a hazel twig,
in the land of the babu’s office.
She runs around the whole bureaucratic system
Like rain off slopes to cradle water
from flooded forests, water-boxing, pinning storms,
desalinizing brakish with layers of mud, at the very bottom.
Or importing by boat from rivers. (Ponds are goddesses.)
Rooftop proofing is her watershed moment,
plumbing, cisterns seizing water like wild tigers
for plants,
the laundry.
See the rain man too condenses fog, dew
while waiting for long-buried wells.
She now runs in the direction of a tsunami…
a river never reversing –
ridges to trap, crops to grow –
the parched becoming quenched.
She draws groundwater over glacial melts,
free of sediment.
Her hair open like a tidal wave. The rain on rhythm
in sodden paper boats, smiling at her reflection
in detention basins.
Rain against its own skin
– the world reopening,
skies re-beginning.
Oasis of home.