The corn died first, then
the soybeans, thirsting for the rain
that didn’t come. Farmers watched
the early morning, noon, 5, 6 and 10
o’clock news knowing that nothing
was changing except hope.
And occupying my postage stamp
of a yard I scurried from grass
to gardens to trees to grass and
back again, a perpetual etcetera
of water and hoses, sprinklers
and soakers, and constant motion
of water and hope.
The red buds died in the boulevards
this summer, and the Civil War tree
in the park, three of my rosebushes
but only one limb of the crabapple.