(for Lindsey Holloway)

And then the magic of May drizzle,
droplets falling like mercy’s gentle rain

as we walk back from a late brunch,
stopping to sniff roses for scent

(pretty pinks, no rosy smell), you
naming plant neighbors on your street,

(the heart-shaped leaves on the lushly
blooming catalpa tree!), greenery

as familiar to you as the folks who tend it.
Me noticing wee drops polka-dotting

the variegated leaves of hostas as I resolve
to photograph the translucent pearls

decorating the fully blooming cosmos and
calendula in my yard, on the insect-nibbled

plumbago (bugs gotta eat, too) and stockpile
the cool for the sizzling days to come.

Then the hose and I will shower the thirsty ones,
when we will all fondly recall rain,

our occasional visitor, who will by then
have migrated east over the Sierra

and hightailing it north for summer,
as is its habit, without a backward glance.