For America in a time of a drought

A poem by Dana Littlepage Smith

by Dana Littlepage Smith 31st July 2020

The rain in the old cemetery is simple.
It falls on yarrow, clover, ragwort
dispensing pearls into the grain of day,
into the Yorick skull-clot of Devon clay.

The tissue of the warm-wooded dead
is wormed with the first drop of its showers,
runs into the finger-hold of tiny oaks, rooting
in dust, splattered by green rain-come-down-rain.