FIRST RAIN

by

Sarojni Mehta-Lissak

Partially deflated, the gray clouds
roll in--anemic now; their glory in
fullness mostly dropped at sea.

When we awaken, remnants of a
visitor are evident, but no floods
or rushing water down the gutters
echo the sounds of a true rain.

Moistness touches only the surface,
making streets slick as ice so wheels
spin in frustration. Asphalt steams
upward as the sun hits it, permeating
the air with a smell of "crude."

And carob pods, putrid in their
dampness, bring back memories
of years on the playground...

Just below the damp soil lies bone
dry, compact dirt, dehydrated from
months of barren skies. Silt and dust
now sit on weakened leaves and
flowers as a weight of thin mud;
not cleansed to reveal their beauty--
but merely tantalized that their thirst
might be quenched.

Yet when it came, it was only a
drizzle; stingy, withholding
and impotent.

Visit Sarojni's website
Email Sarojni