one August night:

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I can’t remember the
last time it rained here,
sweet little drops in a
Maryland suburbia.

Nothing like
the dry coughing
throat parched droughts
of Arizona, hot
where the sun cracks
open the tanned back of Earth,
no sweat to save it.

Here, dry has a different definition-
Traces of the steamy rain
haunt us, pressing over us,
catching our lungs in
ghost liquid, claustrophobic and thick.

But now, at ten-to-twelve p.m.
on a windy August night-
the crickets sing sleepily on
as the old brown trees open their arms
and sigh with the midnight rain.

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A/N: Wrote this one night when I couldn't sleep (not ten-to-twelve as the poem suggests, but ten-to-one, more like) and heard the first drops of rain here in a while. Hope you liked it! If you didn't, oh well- I enjoyed writing it.