Month after month
I drive through thirsty hills
in northern California
From May to September
from Pacific beaches
to Sierra cliffs
all I see is pock-marked
parched
ochre-brown vistas
Now
in this era
of unpredictable weather
a deluge in October
Seeds and roots
that have not dared to breathe
for years
have inhaled the moisture
and exhaled green
A green so bright
yet soft and light
so deep
there is no word
no name for it
almost no tube of paint
to paint it
At last
December hills
are drenched
they roll and undulate
they roil with life
When I look
at their green blanket
of renewal
my eyes almost hurt
but
I feel giddy
I am relieved
reassured
and revived
as if my own thirst
has at last
been quenched
and I am once again
washed clean
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