by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When the rarest
rain shower
finally comes to the desert
in early spring,
it softens the rocky soils,
soil that feels
like the ears of horses,
velvet and warm,
ears you want to kiss
or hold,
or the soft lips
of the work horse
who used to search
my deep pockets—
winter pockets–
for the carrot
or apple.
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