it’s the season of spitting
rain that kicks a little dust
off some parched letters
or a brief shower that sizzles
hitting a standalone title
precipitation this time of year
is like lyrics in hiding or worse
a poet dumbstruck for suggestions
who opens his mouth
and only a hot wind comes
unless a fine idea
rises high into my sky
and squeezes the clouds
there will be no
entertaining downpour
only this tiny germination
from a single-seeded field