Sometimes you can’t trust anything,
They promised a sunny day
but the weatherman was wrong again.
Standing here, dodging raindrops
in late winter’s half-thawed field
on a farm partitioned off for profit,
we disagree on religion, politics, cuisine.
Still, I seek him out
at the family gathering –
more brother than cousin,
always bossing me –
but this is not the time for whining.
There is something honest
about flip flops and Bermuda shorts,
something that’s lost Monday through Friday
in a three piece suit. This field is up for sale.
Buy it, I urge, urgently, turn it into a farm again,
but even as I say it, it’s plain to see
he has forgotten the taste of rain.