In the silver dripping of stars, in little beads of rain on wildflowers, a tunnel opens to let us see new horizons. What is left is the sign of better days, spoken through the water falling from the green stuff of dreams. In the tapping of raindrops on the forest floor, nature lets go of all that doesn’t exist. What lives is this feeling now, inside rain and moonlight, in this sweet smell of rain, in the softness of falling water in our long drought. Soon wildflowers will rise up—miracles forgotten—like rain not seen for months, dripping and dripping to the dry throat of earth.
Poem by Luke Levi
Luke Levi’s poems can be found in Humana Obscura, Presence, Tiny Seed Journal, Haiku Commentary, Akitsu Quarterly, Narrative Northeast, and elsewhere. He lives in the Texas Hill Country. His recent poetry book, So Fragile Are the Beautiful Things, was a finalist for the IAN Book of the Year awards in poetry.