the deepening ground

Over the summer, we experienced a substantial lack of rain. Now this isn’t England, but Grove City usually has its share of rainy days. We savor the sunny ones as they seem to be as rare as European White Truffles. And yet, I was far too busy to notice. As the summer came to a close and the school year with all of its ferocity burst upon me, I found it harder and harder to visit the sanctuary just a couple hundred feet out my back door: Wolf Creek.

On September 18th, I took a brief detour to the creek before getting in my car to head to work. The usually talkative waters lay still and islands had emerged where we used to wade at least ankle deep. Since then I have chipped away at this poem between soccer practices, grading papers, playing weekly gigs, tearing down from wedding receptions, and attempting to keep the budget balanced. I shared it with some fellow poets earlier this month, and now offer it here in its revised and (likely) final form.

Today it rained shortly after I arrived home from work. I would love to say I went out and breathed in the petrichor, but, sadly, I spent the remaining hours of daylight in my bedroom impatiently waiting for updates to load on my laptop so I could finish leaving comments on the last rough draft for my college class. I may be inside, but I can hear the rising howl of Wolf Creek.

Petrichor

By Vincent H. Anastasi 2025

We haven't had a true replenishing rain for months.
A few meager showers — yes — but nothing more than a tease:
no sodden days with soaking rain spilling
over into long gray afternoons steeped in books and tea;
no post rain petrichor of renewed earth
nor vibrant greens awakened by a long, slow drink...
only the choking dust and brown lawns
of lingering drought.

Wolf Creek's grown silent,
the water too low to wet her teeth or loose her tongue,
her sandy gums exposed to sun
as are the rock steps we built down to the stream.
Now islands emerge, banks expand,
and the waters neglect the paths they've known.
She has drawn in to herself to preserve herself —
as have I.

The drought lingers; the creek whispers, woos me
to her banks where I take a photo before heading to work.
The day pushes in but I push off
the scoring of essays, the tending to emails, the hundred vain intrusions
to follow my thoughts upstream
to the source of Wolf Creek
where the sky is pregnant with rain
and life springs forth in fluent tongues.