It's April, when rain loses all
self control and the garden swells
with new leaves on the apple tree,
overzealous magnolias, fresh grass
and birds singing the breath of
heaven. Looking out the window,
I think of August in another planet
from another lifetime. August, when
the rains usurped not winter but
a deathly, sweltering summer, when
the garden swelled with leaves on
the guava tree, jasmine's scent
robbed sleep and catapulted you
heavenwards before a platoon of
mosquitoes brought you right back
down. How the seasons swapped
places with me. Wet cedar mulch
is petrichor's musky twin.
I no longer count my tears.
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