Rain after five months’ drought –
some gesture of amends –
swells the roots of the hosta,
perking the stalks, impartially raising
the smooth and healthy leaves
with those that are torn and brown,
and those half sick half well.
When pain stops, you resume
your previous annoyance and desire.
Dostoyevsky couldn’t get over
how, reprieved from execution,
he became his old self.
And if death ever ends, I’ll return
to what I was doing before time.