Drenched
Not just a little rain
with space between the sprinkles,
not just enough
to wet our tongues,
settle the dust,
cool the air,
and tease us with fresh breath—
Not a shower
that starts and stops
with edges all around
of drier ground—
hardly rain enough
to soak deep down—
Not a good rain
steady, determined,
committed not to stop—
falling, falling, steady,
drop by drop by drop
till every lake and pond is full
and soil runs-off
to wreck our gravel roads
and mud congeals
on chrome and wheels—
But a real drencher—
where rivers fall down,
flooding the skies
and streams blow through our trees,
and eyes turn blind with water
till water’s all we see;
until the soil’s sponge,
our dripping-wet-earth
pours
and sump pumps hiccup—
to shut down—drowned—
while culverts fill
and sewers belch up wet-
we’d-just-as-soon-forget.
Are these God’s tears—
when waters overrun
and still the rain’s not done?
When dense clouds cloak the sun
and we’re soaked as wet
as wet can get?
Ginny Emery ©
