Pray For Rain

June 16 2018

Even the weeds have withered

in this long dry spell,

their zigzag edges browned

fronds dulled by dust;

oppressive stillness

for days on end

in unremitting sun.

But now, it's steamy hot

and you can feel the building storm,

something electric

unsettling the air.

The laundry hangs heavy

still stubbornly wet.

My sodden shirt sticks

seams chafing with sweat.

And it's harder and harder to breath,

as if water and heat

had displaced essential oxygen.

In the distance, there's a deep bass rumbling

which I feel, more than hear,

anxiously expectant

in this deceptive calm.

Like the muted sounds of war

inching closer and closer

but still too far to see;

the thud of cannon, and strafing runs

the flat repeat of guns,

armoured dozers' diesel throb

the trudge of weary grunts.

The sky darkens, the ceiling lowers.

And we reflexively duck

at the first boom of thunder,

as a fitful breeze quickens

and sprinkles pit the dust.

Then a blistering volley of gusts

from all directions at once,

as lightning cracks the sky

and rain comes bucketting down.

The washing whips free

and the line rips from its wheel;

and we lean into the wind,

shrink-wrapped

in sopping clothes.

The water rising

on impervious  earth,

running-off, instead of soaking in

to the hard-baked soil.

The rain we were praying for.

Even the non-believers, like me

who scoff at an absent God

and resist superstition.

A God, so quick to temper,

so cruel and contingent

in His whimsical gifts,

so unmoved

by our offerings.

We, too, looked up to the heavens

along with the rest;

the devout few

who are sure of their faith,

and the many more

for whom it's a struggle.

As if hope and need

could conquer doubt.

As if an act of will

could end a drought.