Dry Spell

All in a flourish of

trilling birdsong,

the feathered shadows

hasten back to the

whispering willows

wings full of the rising wind,

who on her back carries

a scarce gift

proudly—like the thunder cracks

full of might and warning—

as the thirsting earth yawns,

open and yearning below,

where you stand in place

struck by a moment's pause.

*

Your curiously upturned face

greets the first hesitant drops,

who fall swollen and bravely alone,

then all at once,

together

they fall

in a tremendous symphony,

a raw, rhythmic, rain-soaked

harmony, inviting you to dance,

life to grow,

hearts to beat,

mouths to sing,

and hope to make

a home again

where it once felt out of place.