During Drought Leaves pile ankle-deep in the yard, not because of season, but for lack of rain. Hard, brown Magnolia leaves, resembling shards of leather make clopping sounds as they scoot over pavement. Cracks criss-cross our yard, the yard I knew as a child.
Yellowed grass spikes up on islands.
Even on the sidewalk, I step on a map without labels. My mother stays in the hospital tonight, perhaps for several days. The weather promises no rain. The tree copes by letting go and letting go, I, by walking out of doors, by squinting into bright sky, by trying to touch a living water inside myself. Copyright 2001, Rebecca Balcarcel Rebecca Balcarcel is a student of Bennington College's MFA program and the recipient of their Jane Kenyon Scholarship.