Patterns

It’s summertime,

hot, sticky August.

Rain from long awaited

thunderstorms bathes

the desperate land.

Rain is a sensual thing.

Sitting on the couch in the afternoon,

listening to the blues and rain;

rain, a luxury here.

I am eating eggs,

a nectarine,

juice running down

my chin,

my arm,

condensation from an iced coffee

like sweat upon the skin,

mimicking the rain.

Outside,

cars navigate swift waters

of an overflowing arroyo.

The traffic patterns seemingly

hear the blues,

dance to those rhythms;

pausing, waiting,

slowing at the right moments,

dips in music and roadway,

attempting to tread Muddy Waters.

No one quite understands

the monsoons here,

unless you experience them.

Like the blues,

or eating a nectarine,

it’s personal.

2015 copyright by Katie Pifer available at http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

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