After the Thirst
The world was parchment, hard and sere,
A faded scroll of yesteryear,
Where once-green hopes lay thin and cracked,
And all the summer dreams were sacked
By winds that bore a dusted sigh
Beneath a wide and whitened sky.
The flowers, husks in barren beds,
Drooped low their dry, exhausted heads,
Their colors bleached to memory,
Their stems all bent in misery.
They dreamed in roots, down deep and blind,
Of something left, some pulse behind,
A whispered rumor in the stone…
Then came a new and tender tone.
A murmur, not of air, but weight,
A softening at the garden gate.
A single drop—a shattered diamond—
Upon the cheek of the despondent
Earth. Then two. Then suddenly,
A hushing, rushing harmony.
It was not loud, at first, but deep,
A promise that the dust would keep,
A slow unclenching of the air,
A baptism, everywhere.
The rain! It spoke on every leaf
That clung in miniature relief.
It drummed a liturgy so old
On roof and road, a story told
In beads that strung along the wire,
A cleansing of the ancient fire.
It seeped into the gaping cracks,
Filled forgotten river-tracks,
And to each root, a probing thread,
It brought the living word, and said:
“Awaken from your earthen sleep,
The vigil that you swore to keep
Is over. Drink, and be remade.
Be no more lonely, nor afraid.”
And underground, a stirring woke,
As if a silent chord was struck.
The tuber swelled, the bulb uncurled
Its secret self into the world.
A pushing, urgent, gentle might
Against the comforting dark night,
A journey started toward the sound
Of falling mercy on the ground.
The seed, a tiny, shuttered thing,
Felt the unlocking of its spring,
And put a pale, inquisitive shoot
Toward the music, toward the root
Of all this change—the patient, falling,
Constant, sweet, insistent calling.
Then, as the cloud-gray lightened, grew
To pearled and luminous anew,
The rain became a silver mist,
A benediction, softly kissed
On every blade and branch and stone.
And then, alone, and not alone,
A green tip broke the sodden crust,
A pioneer of life and trust.
Then more, and more—a verdant fount
From every hillock, every mount
Within that small, reclaimed domain.
Then came the color, after rain!