August, you remember, the real beginning
of rain. It won’t stop dancing on the rooftop
and the wind is drenched with grace. I place
a bucket on the floor to catch the overflow.
News of your heat wave has reached us
advancing like a dune across America.
I’ve forgotten this land of extremes, mercury
rising, falling. Weather vane spins frantically,
portent of changes. You left the Philippines
when I was in college. Mom followed you
a decade later. I keep seeing that pond
in Jersey where you live, the one
that scintillates with afternoon sun.
During a visit, I learned the story
of migration, science of the possible.
In spring the brown bodies of geese
would skate on water’s surface, the still-
naked branches of trees supplicating the sky.
The birds’ orderly V would fold the horizon
like the first step in origami. The last
flap of wing would be heard before winter.
As when the foliage turns over
like the hesitant heart, I will realize
you have found a country. I, your daughter,
will continue to collect rainwater
in the bucket, ripples reminding me
of the pebble I once threw at the pond
the sudden scattering of geese.
For Mom and Dad
© Noelle Leslie dela Cruz
