By Mario Duarte
After Days, A Week
without lluvia, spotty leaves—tongues
droop while we reminisce about rain patter,
gliding cool droplets slipping away.
No water in the soil for any roots
while the heat muzzles the dusty windows
until rainy footsteps return.
While we breathe, we must sing. ¿Verdad?
Time is the pause between raindrops,
if only we heeded the explosions.
Often, we only catalog the results—
dashing through muddy puddles,
pant legs clinging from cold splashes.
So, welcome autumn photography,
ROYGBIV to the eye, welcome,
cooler days until the long sueño.
Mario Duarte is a Mexican American writer and an Iowa Writers’ Workshop graduate. His work has appeared in Bowery Gothic, Eucalyptus Lit, Mersey Review, and Wasteland Review among others. He is the author of poetry, To the Death of the Author, and short stories, My Father Called Us Monkeys.