A Sudden Rain

We planted our annual vegetable garden last Monday. The thick soil, which was, until recently, a rough expanse of dirt clods and horse dung, is now neatly stitched with rows of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and swiss chard. On the way to the garden, it began to rain, and continued well into the evening. We came out of it soaked to the skin, covered from fingers to elbows in mud and manure, and, above all, happy. I'm looking forward to the crops-to-come.


A Sudden Rain

The rain is a welcome relief.
Its steady advance from the clouds
is soft as a fugitive thief
that scatters the spurious crowds,

and on each surprising descent,
the woody perfume of the earth
unfurls. No life is ill-spent
when lived in a waterlogged mirth,

where heavenly stoppers release
such brisk reliquaries of air
and water. What glorious peace
prevails within disrepair,

so long as the wolcen will shed
a radiant torrent of tears
that leavens our indolent bread
and opens our ailing ears.