Dry leaves have accumulated
in our circular driveway,
caught in a pent-up whirlwind
which cannot escape. ‘Round
and around they are pulled
in succession, convoluted
blades scraping asphalt,
one after another
in consecutive milliseconds
outside my window, dead foliage,
once living, now carnage,
leaf berating stone without relief.
O hear, it sounds like rain, a haunting
pitter-patter promising insistence,
and there it goes again, but it isn’t.
No water for the thirsty earth.
Parched, we are without abatement.
It is an illusion, a mirage to
desperate dry ears wanting
to make the hurricane of fire