The melodic drip of a small fountain
so near at hand –

half full and amplified—

calls for replenishing
it’s copper pipes.
Raindrops from a felt gray sky
are all so dripping moist
on my sad ear.

The crying falls
universal on the very day
the season struggles
announcing
its wet self
to a swelling surge of soil
bound up in
all the growing, trembling
as the poppy pods burst
their green boundaries
and orange comes
falling out and out
crinkly as wet skin
all crepe and thin
in it’s newness
fragile as last moment’s
wet breath
sipping the damp sounds
fertility rejoicing makes.
Each damp petal
explodes
from its containment.