What’s extraordinary is this rain-
after years of
dry, cracked soil,
and drooping tomato plants,
I don’t complain,
a prayer has been answered.
It arrives like a two thousand year old miracle,
translucent seeds falling from heaven.
The maple tree’s old fingers shake and quiver,
straining to catch the steady drops
that spill from a slate sky.
Children slip and slide across town,
happy little fish swimming upstream.
I don’t complain that the sun and moon
have run off together behind a curtain of clouds,
I wish them well!
I open my mouth and guzzle down raindrops,
content as an old drunk tossing back a shot.
Camellias lay scattered in my front yard,
as pink as Monet’s waterlilies.
What’s extraordinary is this rain,
and how this wet morning light
smells of dark muddy ground,
with all who slept
or dreamed of death,
by Johanna Ely
Editor’s Note: This poem’s vitality (imagery as sharp as a photo) suits its subject—life after drought. [apologies for the double-post today… typos are the devil]