by Paul Hostovsky
When there’s nothing to say there is still
this to say, still there is this like a
birdbath in someone’s yard in your
childhood, not your birdbath or your yard
and no birds now, or rainwater yet, just this
palm, this listening for the rain, this memory
of a waiting place made of stone for the birds
–if they come–to drink from the rain after
a rain. When there’s nothing to say there is still
this asking, this open upturned face, this mouth
waiting to collect the first few drops,
this hopeful, trembling tongue.