The wet ground
around the chicory.
Fading lavender blue,
hanging on for dear life.
The rain knocked a pile of oranges
off the tree.
Bringing a slight citrus memory.
A kind of melancholy,
after they fell.
You could inhale it in the air.
Jack remembered skinny dipping,
and jumping through the green water
into her laughter, muffled now with the years.
But like the smell released
by the moisture,
that moment is freed,
to come alive again,
wet and welcoming.
It hasn’t rained here for months.
He hoped the storm would linger
just for a day or two.