The Russian’s Garden

Off in the distance – yes – thunder

But no rain, the humidity clinging to my under

Arms free of burden and water

Does the universe matter

Or do we have to think of it first

Yuri in his Russian-Speak walks into my office

Singing some old village harvest song

My limp meager white trash bag in his mitt

No rain here, he says, looking at me

He is pointing at his feet

I look out the window – nothing but noise

Over there, he again points and utters – rolling

Russian tongue – my garden

It will rain there. I stand and we look out

The window together at his house, his garden

Floating off in the distance

My plants

Off in the distance – yes – thunder

& rain

Reaching up their green mouths like baby birds



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