Fist upon the sun gods.
Seek among the goddess earth.
Chant and clang before icons:
oh please, good fortunes,
new birth and wealth.
Sacrifice a goat – the blood will dry
at the foot of the temple.
The blood will dry
and still no rain.
Scream into the night
for a pittance of hope demanded
and stir a neighbor’s peace,
a dog’s twitch into soup dreams
of portent and panic. Yes,
that task, once done, bestows
upon us the riches, the riches
the ancients cached:
Dishes wash smoother when soaked.
A grain in a bowl is not empty.
Basil brings life to bland fare.
The herbs of spring strengthen
once dried and stored for winter,
and the yeasts of us ferment unto heaven.