The Rains

Like a fire hydrant shut down by the police in the hot summer months,
The floods of his passion are gone,
And the drops that once caressed now evaporate in the stale dryness of discomfort with no relief.
She lives in the stifling heat of that day, thirsty and parched for weeks now,
And it will not rain,
And she fears it never will.


Foolishly, she sits…

Longing anxiously on the corner for the kiddies to return in a moment of mischief and boldness, and free the hydrant’s cooling wetness, that it might tickle her face with its mist,
Drench her dress til it drips,
That her body might delight in the waters gushing charms.
But these boys are fickle and kickball and cars and the new slide at the local pool currently have their affections.
There is no telling when or if they might remember the way they danced in the streets those Saturdays before.

So, she sits –

Her dress of pinks and oranges and that bold green stripe becomes soiled from the grime of the curb, 3 steps from the sewer, as she watches as the puddles of past pleasure slip busily away, oily and murky. The colors in its streams, defiantly mocking the wonder that she could now only faintly feel in her heart.

Deep in her despair the heavens’ whispers wash over her soul,
Wooing her with songs of assurance that His waters always return.
Sometimes in gentle drops, other times steady beats and occasionally down pours that last for days.
And the soil drinks in the waters greedily, anxious to achieve its end.
The yearning of new life finally permitted to blossom.

This relief though not routine is reliable nonetheless.
Steadfast and faithful and like those memories she’d gathered to ponder on while she mourned,
These drops too could be assembled and harnessed, so that she might drink and soak in its gifts, even on the days it does not come.


“Look to the heavens,” whispers the wind,

“For the rains will never cease.”

“My waters will never leave you thirsty.”