Swollen storms are curling past us to the north. Their long tails tease us, but, as usual, there has been no rain here. Soon, we will begin to drag our tangled hoses across our lawns, fill our pools, lovingly service our air conditioners. There will be yet another drought declared, yet another summer of restricted water. We will not be allowed to wash our cars or spray down our sidewalks. Each night, news anchors will inform us of new brush fires and of the lingering burn ban as we wash the ash from our throats with iced tea.
All my poems are of liquid, now - thickening clouds, salt tears, kisses, dew.