Tradition

My stairs creak, damp
with years of drought. /
Rain becomes routine
when it's unnecessary
and when it lays down in blankets
like it's warming the cement
instead of running cold rivers.
A swift wave of longing
washes over the window again,
dangling hurricanes in the street
while I turn so the small of my back /
watches and my hands
dangle ornaments and mementos
on the briars of the tree / like a fool. 

This is a work in progress, so there will be some changes made.  I just need to publish it now so that I'll remember it later!