The County of Rain

Lush and glistening,
strands of rubies used to spill
from the thrush’s throat;
but now the dew will dry
before the sun rises, and we
endure a thirsty cinder,
and then a choking,
broken moon.

And so I’ll drive
through the night,
past the pine barren’s
wind-thrawn forms
to your county of rain,
where webbed clouds
bow, set topaz flakes

in your mist-curled hair,
and where — just beyond
your garden of blue flag
and rushes — a thrush weaves
its nest of azure threads
pulled from a stream’s
endless plaiting.