The Land Waits for the Rain
An original poem based on many heartbreaking experiences
The land awaits the rain
Expectantly, eager like a bride on her wedding night
Open, receptive to the darkening sky,
The seeds lie in the furrow, yearning for the falling rain
To soften their hard shells, moistening the hidden germ
In order to release the dormant life within
As the storm approaches, the charge builds
The excitement, the tension
The plants, the grasses, trees, and crops all sense it,
The birds are hushed
The tree frogs begin to call out
Speaking for all things here
Crying out to the sky
The farmer prays, makes offerings,
Feeling in his bones
The yearning of the land for the sky
The palpable desire
Of the vegetation for the rain which gives it life
The world is hushed as the dark clouds approach.
The air is thick, humid, mist visible.
The thunder rumbles and the lightning flashes
Just then, at the last moment
The fickle clouds turn away
A few scant drops fall upon the dust
While a torrent rages on the next ridge
And the land lies tormented by frustrated desire
As if she was worked up and left hanging by the sky
For the fourth time in a week the storms have turned away
Evaporating as they approach the land and its needy crops
The force of the storms diminished
By the hot dry air rising from the thirsty land
Discouraged, angry, a torrent of emotions arise in the heart
Disappointment, envy of those who received the rain
The farmer wonders what indifferent force
Turns them aside at the last minute
And sends the rain to those who don’t need or want it
Those who see rain as a nuisance, a picnic spoiled
A ballgame or outdoor wedding cancelled, postponed
Ruined hay, or soil too wet for work
But for those who tend the crops it is life,
Needed in proper balance,
Not too much and not at the wrong time
The farmer asks:
“You gods and spirits of the sky,
You rain spirits and wind genii
Angels of the elements
Thunder bringers, rain givers
What have I done,
What have I not done?
Have we not worked hard enough
Have I not called out to you with earnest yearning
Have my words, my gifts, my devotion
The drumbeats and midnight chants of sacred names
The incense smoke which carries
My humble prayers aloft to you
Have they not been pleasing?”
As if in answer a thought forms in his heart:
A hope that next time his prayers will be heard
And the desire of the land will be satisfied
By the cool fall of a steady rain
On the thirsty land
The roar of millions of falling drops on the metal roof
And the echoing sound of the cistern filling
The croaking of contented frogs
Consummating their ancient amphibian lust
The gift of rain
Replacing restless worry
With peaceful dreams
Of flourishing crops and verdant pastures
