Solstice (v.2)

At the open door, the draft scraped its feet.
I hoped the raging pulse of Spring's last shudder
would force us to knees in its lusty come cry,
our heads bent to the end of an adulterous breath.

Half an hour I sat on the swing-set smoking,
soaking in the charge that snaked
through the olive branches, before it even started.

When the first blemish of rain kneeled
on my blue jeans and spread through the fibers,
I swung higher and kicked at the limb of a tree
gravid with that suspended mist.

It wetted the dead snarl of ground
with a satisfying shimmer.

I wandered down to the backyard,
cigarette hissing at each violent drop,
the water wanton at my neck where my shirt fell open.

The ground opened up and bled rivulets
veining angrily over the gravel.

Willow over my head rushed to a whisper again.
Puddles glassed over.
Air stinking of fresh dirt, piss, but I breathed nonetheless,
my palate soaked in the earth's heavy breath.

I followed a footpath to the back porch,
saw laundry hung limp, drenched on the line.

Since then, you have not called.