 Our land is brown but blessed, stressed in the heat, the shiny heat
of day. The slender green of rivers slides along, striving to
continue, to feed its own along the banks, the banks where the dust
rises, rises, powdery clomp by clomp as we walk, walk the shady way.
And though the heat, the dryness of heat, pushes down our weary
feet, we plod along. When the heat falls hard, on many days
unquenched by the dark of night, we ask, in quiet times, we ask.
Bring us the clouds, the black-bellied clouds, the clouds that
softly hold the heads of gods in their moistening grasp.
Let them come, with their silver tops and their bellies black as
night and cool as forgiveness. The clouds, the rain, the respite
from the toil. To soak the thirsty soil. Let the magic come and
stay, stay for a while, at least for a while, and wet us down, all
the way down. Fill our pores, smooth our skin, wash us free of dirt
and sin, with the rain, the cleansing, blessing rain. Sink the water
to the core of the earth and push it through the dust, making it
heavy and loath to leave the ground.
[to top of second
column] |
When it's done, when it's over, when we've had our treasure and
the clouds have gone, when it's over, please, bring it again another
day. Another day of clouds, of life, of rain, of supreme love and
comfort, of one more treat for man and his animal friends. Wait
until it's right, but then, bring the big rollers in from the west,
and let us watch the world get its fiery drink, and drink in the
noise and think about cooler times, but know ... let us know that
there is nothing better than this.
[Text from file received from Slim Randles]
Brought to you by the new book "Home
Country," at www.slimrandles.com. |
