Monsoon season slips in with us,
these first days of quiet rain.
Renewal soft uplifted faces,
silken washing of hot season
from tamarind, mango, coconut palm.
Here, slicked to my garden gate
a Japanese maple leaf
dark branches bent
beneath their rising weight.
Escaped from D.C.’s pewter gray,
and shiny streets of snow and ice,
we’ve come to Bangkok, where sunset
this time of year, sets silver crowns
on thunderstorms astride the horizon.
They hurry moisture from the Gulf—
like tenant farmers late with rent.
This long-expected cure for heat
will soon become rice planting season.
A letter on my desk sits unopened.
I know what it says. Reassignment.
I expect the next will tell me where.
While we wait, the Chao Phraya
overfills the city. Along our lane,
the children chase golden carp
overflowed from our pond. And
in our bedroom, the young ching-chok,
survived hot season on mosquitos,
slips around the window screen
to grow among the flowers.