"There are cracks on the surface of the moon,"
she said, and,
"I thought you should know."
It wasn't that long ago that the rains fell in Paradise,
but I hear that all is cyclical:
the infinite loopsnake biting his tail.
I guess that makes this the dry season.
If we squint against the sun to the horizon,
will we go blind?
Or will we smell hope
as the thunderheads roll in?