Sufficient (A poem)

I.
Up Winnona Drive leaves sashay with color,
belting out hallelujahs to fall.
Summer’s faded green whirls orange and gold,
maroon warms the cool blue sky.
Bursts of periwinkle blazon the asters
that long stood dull and quiet against the garden fence.
Acorns blanket sidewalks, crushed piles that slip
beneath the feet of unwary walkers.
Caught in this kaleidoscope I catch
my breath and balance:
The pattern shifts again.

II.
Last night’s rain was not enough
to fill the lake for Atlanta’s millions
though the governor prayed for storm.
“Drought,” he said, “is God’s way
of getting our attention.” Then who’s listening?
Not the neighbor whose sprinkler still flails in the dead
of night, nor the man whose lone
water use could serve sixty homes,
nor the governor, who blames on God our own long-term cupidity—
Nor even the heavens, it seems, whose fourteen-hundredths
of an inch flipped off the hope
for an undeserved deus ex machina.

III.
But today the trees are washed and dressed,
transfigured in pagan glory.

Anita, 6 Generations blogger