Lasting Water

After fingers raked out the caul
of black leaves, and spring lizards
scuttled and settled like things
blown by the wind, only then
would my grandfather savor
that spurt water makes in sand
as it breaks free from the world’s
underneath to pool and spread
across the land like skyroots
even in the direst drought.
He called it lasting water,
that low-pulsed flow he scooped up
with blistered palms so it might
touch his lips as he kneeled there
at the field’s edge where corn rows
withered like paper in flames,
limp rags of tobacco burned
without a match and green wings
sang in the trees to bring rain.