The olive jar slipped.
Saw salt water and fruit
plash among smashed glass,
sands of which I'll find for weeks.
Clean, chamomile-scented,
kitchen floor tiles
show motes of dark dirt
flung under the door
fleeing high winds, more rain.
Thyme-seeded soil,
lost to soft mold,
enters the bin bag too.
My hand's unsteady,
worn by the storm,
saddened by seed death.
I take a breath,
tie up the trash,
pull on boots,
pocket keys,
go out.
I need sun, but the rain's won.
