Ying and Yang

14 Jul

Rain.
The third week of it.
Drizzly and veil-like at times,
thunderous with almost white-water ferocity
at others.
Soaked clay soil
repels the additional wet
which runs in rivulets down the clogged-veins
of culverts and drainage ditches,
swelling and welling up over corrugated containers
which no longer contain,
over rounded banks which are washed away
to reveal the tangled, unkempt roots
of trees and bushes and undergrowth.

No rain.
Not five years ago.
Not a drop.
And the arid heat beat the land mercilessly,
frying and drying every blade of grass,
every tendril of flora that sought any moisture
in the soil.
Their toils, useless, like the dried and dying
fingers of an old man trying to rekindle the softness of love.
But, not a cloud, not a wisp of wetness from above
to dampen the beds of cracked dirt and hardened mulch.
Yellowed stalks and heat-bent flowers
yielded nothing but crumbling, waterless petals
that dropped like stones to the parched earth.

Rain.
But the land is green. Verdant.
Like an African savannah fresh from the Spring’s watering.
Lush and lively, pulsing with potential of sprigs
of growth
and more.

And when the silt settles and the skies return to normal,
when the swollen streams recede and the winds no longer
fell the great old oaks that have lost their hold in the earth,
when clouds fade into distant rumblers,
and a fresh breeze brushes the tops of trees
and the amber meadows of grass once again
there’s no question.

Rain is better than no rain.

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