In the middle of a monsoon
with my eyes pressed down tight
gulping in moist mellow lungfuls
of saturated air
I am almost
the air is pregnant with dew
painting the land vivid and fertile
a green unknown by desert dwellers
and washing my soul.
Gusts of wind buffet my face
but I can almost
reign them in to become
a gentle persistent ocean breeze
welcoming me back with a kiss
breathed across left and right cheekbone.
But no matter how tightly
I press eyelashes against wishful cheek
I can never
transform the sharp tang of creosote
after an afternoon thunderstorm
into the rich heady aroma of
plumeria thick with a
new morning’s tears.