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Posts Tagged ‘rain’

Thirsty

 

 

 

At last, the rain,

a furious rain,

that turned into

tiny fists of hail,

shredding leaves

and pummeling

everything it met,

 

it rained as if

one day, charged

with intensity,

might change

a hundred days

of drought—

 

and, oh, the world after,

bruised and shining, still thirsty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One Bidding

 

 

 

waking to rain 

what is driest in me 

reshapes itself  

into a beggar’s bowl 

puts itself in my hands 

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deep desert canyon of the heart—

it remembers when

it was ocean

 

 

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One Drought

 

 

just doing my homework

said the rain cloud

the mesa still dust dry

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dancing in the downpour—

the same woman who an hour ago

didn’t want to get wet

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Despite the News

 

 

 

Again the rain,

and I wander

the tender green grass

of the field.

The hands pull weeds

because the hands

want something to do.

And the mind looks

for morels, because the mind

wants something to do.

And the feet wander,

because they are born

nomads. And the heart

opens. Not because

it wants to, but

because there is something

in the scent of rain

that suggests

so much is possible,

even, against all odds,

beauty. Even, though

it seems impossible,

another day.

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After all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

And so after shouting

and whining and begging

and crying and whimpering,

simpering, weeping and sniveling,

sobbing and blubbering, bawling

and name calling, wailing

and flailing and thrashing

and sprawling, and after the threats

and after the bribes, after

loudly groaning and prostrated moaning,

at last she was quiet and felt

against her cheek the damp,

and she noticed the whole

world a-glistening and she

walked in the rain, hair wet,

clothes wet, and instead

of complaining, she began

listening, listening

to the humble, beautiful

song of rain.

 

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One Abandon

 

 

drenched in the downpour—

the feet, now reckless,

find a playground in every puddle

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Standing beneath the pinion tree

I am almost dry, while all around me

 

the rain almost attacks the road.

I lean my head against its shagging bark

 

and watch the world transform from dust

to shine. Thunder rends the darkened sky.

 

I knew when I began the ride

the rain was impatient.

 

I knew it would be no gentle shower.

How odd to trick myself into being

 

caught in a storm. How often I choose the gale.

Small bits of bark tear off in the wind,

 

fall to the cactus, the dirt. Eventually,

I am no longer content to watch

 

and pull my bike into the rain. Wasn’t

this what I wanted somehow, to be

 

unguarded, exposed, out? Within a minute

my clothes stick to my skin, and I shiver,

 

in part from the chill, in part because

I, too, have become a shining thing.

 

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And let there be rain,

though the path is easier

when dry, and let there be

a bend in the road.

Let us think we know

where we are going—

and let us be wrong.

There are wings in us

we’ve forgotten.

Let us walk until

we remember them.

And then, let us walk

for the joy of walking.

Because puddles.

Because the path.

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