The clouds in the east
are only a false promise of rain today,
but the jasmine has begun to bloom outside my door,
and above, the intense pale green
of emerging leaves graces the tree.
There is a hint of grass smoke
from the spring fires burning in the hills,
and an unseen wren is singing a sweet song,
“Where is love, where is love – surely not far away”,
waiting for the drought to end.