Growing Season

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

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