David Feela

When rain falls in the desert

fragrance flash-floods the senses,

unbraids itself like a garland

compelled to become a garden.

 

Rigid sandstone softens

and flows, as if stirred by water.

The old lightning-scared piñon

smells of black licorice,

 

and sage so full of sunlight

smolders yellow.

Against a ceiling of dark clouds

a kettle drum thunders.