This poem came about when we finally got some serious rain, ending months of drought, fire, heat domes. Somehow it turned into an exercise in alliteration.
Instead of reading it silently, you try rolling the words around on your tongue. See if it makes any difference.
Rain!
A drop descends, falling on exposed forehead.
Bare skin shrinks, shivers, then rejoices
in long-suppressed celebration.
Rivulets run down the road; paths puddle.
Living water returns, washing away
the dust and ashes of unending drought.
Each drop delivers a renewed
intimation of immortality.
Sodden shirts cling to collarbones.
White fabrics turn transparent, brown goes black.
Faces frozen into frowns crack into smiles;
water trickles on cheeks like tears.
Feet respond in an impromptu fandango
replicating the rhythm of raindrops
drumming on roofs, on roads -- each impact
splashing a royal crown of celebration.
Liquid shines on spread leaves,
gathers gray ash, joins together to
shimmer silently down to leaf tips.
Wetness weighs leaves,
bending them till moisture beads,
healing drops drip down
onto the next leaf, and the next, cascading
a response to the siren song of thirsty soil.
Moisture seeps into the soil.
Invisible fungi wrap filaments around roots
that thread through the dry debris
of former life; they suck sustenance
back into the synapses of the forest floor.
The green fuse lights; sap creeps into
capillaries long closed for self-defence.
Tree tops wave triumphantly.
A thrill of joy throbs through the ground.
Seeping moisture morphs into
a flush of near-forgotten ecstacy.
Hallelujah! Holy is the healing!
The sacredness of life suffuses
tiny seedlings. Trunks touch the sky,
organ pipes that resonate too low to hear,
offering an oratorio for rain’s resurrection.
By Jim Taylor, August 2021