I’m forgetting the rains of summer. Water filled the wash; top soil loosed its hold on earth and was carried by flash flood through dry river bed to fill empty barren spaces, once too low now filled with ripe top soil.
A season later and I’m dry as a bone; dried and cracked, wind bent I bow to the ground. Oh that a Spirit would blow; that cold wind would invigorate, that rain would come with refreshing, with greening. Oh for renewal.
The clouds mock and tease; they say they bring rain but it’s a lie. They bring cold. Breaking up the blue sky the sun reaches around them; not hidden, nor fully displayed. Oh how beautiful the blue sky against the black and grey illusion of coming rain clouds.
I bow to the ground. I long for water; for revival for this lush garden brought low by this season of drought.
Green fronds spring up; finding water they spring up, sparse but their bright green shines fluorescent against the dry cracking blacks, beige and browns. They shoot straight up; are they trusting for water or believing the lie of the clouds? In their innocence they shout; they spring, they sing of a hope that is coming.
I’m forgetting the rains of summer. Torrent that brought fresh, nitrite and oxygen filled soil to fill in empty places. I am lost in the winter. The fierce wind cracks that which is dry and devoid of sap. I forget that spring is coming with warmth, color and new surpises.
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