Some malign mornings
dressed messily in soft, wet
gossamer fog hanging low,
light barely seeping through
layers of thick clouds.
A steady drip, as fat drops hit
the roof and window sill
and I am reassured.
I am relieved.
I am inspired by it.
Years ago, these prairies were dying.
Dry, drought conditions
cracked the earth,
as fields rejected seeds
as if the ground was sickened my life.
Creek banks ran dry, home to snakes
and big, hairy spiders, but never fish or frogs.
Grasshoppers came in waves
and their cousins as well,
eating what little the fields had put forth
and we just had to watch
as the forests burned.
But this year,
it seems the sky is wracked with grief,
for it sobs out great amounts
of fresh tears upon the prairies.
It has been a long time
since everything was so green.
So lush, so verdant, so fertile.
Such fecundity is welcome,
but too much moisture
and everything will just rot
right where it stands
and there will be no joy
in the rain, anymore.
The rain is welcome,
for our growing season is short.
We do not have long to yield our bounty.
When the day comes
where we meet the reaper,
the thresher and the harvester,
our stock will be taken in days of rain.
From our earliest puddle splashing,
giggling in our galoshes,
to our last walk,
holding hands with our lifelong love,
in a spring sun shower
that comes to clear the dust
off the shining path.
I have never cursed the rain,
for each thing is fed by the sky
and there are only so many days
allotted to us here,
where our growing season is short.
There is a long winter coming.
HG – 2016
