A crusty star aloe,
looks like something a dragon
spit out when Adam was struggling
to pronounce wildebeest.
Its root holds dust dear as a child
and the flower bobs centuries old
under the sweltering Serengeti moon.
When the rain comes in buckets and tubs
in Northern California
I think of the thimble full it would take
to make the desert dance
and how Isaiah promised blooms
would supplant thorns.
My throat gets dry
as I argue.
If God meant for this,
then why is there that,
knowing full well
He asks the same thing of clouds
I saw the curve of the earth there.
The horizon has that much play,
to bend things,
as if the earth has a choice to smile,