By Claudia Ricci
Those lilies I planted by the driveway
are bent over, orange blossoms drooping into powdery soil.
The Lady's Mantle is shriveled and and the grass is crisp,
and the leaves of the White Gooseneck Loosestrife look fragile and limp.
All day I hear the gardens crying. There is no way to satisfy their thirst for water.
Will the well hold up through this awful drought?
I decided this morning I ought
to do a raindance.
Chanting, singing, shaking orange and green rattles,
I would wear a bright blue and purple and green cloak
around my shoulders and tie beads around my ankles.
I'd wear a costume fit to beg the heavens for beads of water.
A headdress of dead ferns, tied
together with the wilted vines of
I would send up my chant to Mother Nature,
over and over:
Wet me. Wet us. Wet the world.
Fill us to drench and slurping.
Send all of your thirsty nations
A long steady downpour
so we can begin to restore ourselves to life.