When comes the rain?

A lament

When comes the rain?

	We have sown seed in rows.

	The hidden darkness of the 

        upturned dirt blanches in the heat.

	The pale green shoot unfolds,

	germinating to that fading damp.

When comes the rain?

	There are thunderheads horizon-bound:

	Great floods, lush green, leaves above

	hang heavy in their sparkling wealth.

	A verdure teems and strains underneath,

	the bright of sun blesses, never curses.

When comes the rain?

	In our garden: A fitful spatter transmuted 

	to steam by the vengeful sun,

	a mist thrown up, burned off,

	that as it rises carries life

	away, amiss, leaving us dust.

When comes the rain?

	That blessed fever breaks

	as sheets, folded over, folded over

	in pools, overwhelmed.

	That sound a pressure on our ears,

	that hiss a hymn of life.

When comes the rain?

	We sow, and sow again, and carry water.

	The turning wheel of seasons, like a clock

        winds one way only. But every year

	has its own first day of spring.

	There remains a gardener's hope, for

when comes the rain.