Buckets and bottles
outside the front door
to catch the rain,
water, water . . .
and I can’t flush
the toilet.

I hear the steady
stream from the rain gutter.
Men in yellow slickers
clear branches from
the creek,
here, I hope,
to repair the water
pipes . . . again.

The sun breaks through
on the winter branches,
a helicopter rumbles past.
Our little town
makes the news
each time it rains.
Here where nature
still lives,
and water may soon
go over the dam.

The sun and rain compete,
the cats sit on the stoop
ready to come in,
one looking out to the yard,
the other in.

My ink bottle says
brilliant green,
but I think not.
It is sweet green

Brilliant is the wild grass
growing high on the
banks of the creek,
the showered leaves
of ficus and palm,
and philodendrum,
the naked ladies
eager to bloom,
the parsley and celery,
the leaves of lettuce,
Yes, quite