The Rain and Wind
by Caleb Bomske
I’ve been squatting in the sun too long,
My reservoirs are dry.
The morning due is too long, far gone:
I’m afraid I will die.
Death sends cracks through my dying soil:
I’ll never be the same.
The spirit of man has failed to toil,
And now I need your rain.
I’ve seen the river and the clear lake,
They sift out corrupt crud.
But, for this old wetland, it’s too late:
My efforts are a dud.
I see the dark thunderclouds gather,
But I am not afraid.
My land torn by violent winds, rather,
The soaked ground is fain staid.
Through this ever darkened, violent night,
Lightening strikes the dry hedge,
And burns unwanted dross in the fight,
From this darkened land’s edge.
When the morning comes dawning anew,
A mist will rise to tour,
The fresh green, brightened where things once grew,
Blooming wetland allure.
My vice—struggling nature—is refreshed:
Joy manifest: birdsongs.
Your power changed my countenance, meshed,
With nature to clean wrongs.
