Two years of drought seem broken by a deluge
that would be the wrath of God were it not mercy.
No doubt some prophet has spoken to Heaven for us
and obtained a grace sufficient to wash away
all memory of withered crops, clear skies, dry wells,
and the taste and texture of dust in the teeth. No wonder
men dance naked in the streets and sing
and women braid their hair with mint and daisies.
No wonder children clap their hands and laugh
at the tattoo of the downpour on the rooftops.
But may God spare us profligate relief.
For rain may cause the wisest to forget
the vast, dry tragedy of the time behind us,
the unknown danger in the years ahead.

Articles by Duane K. Caylor

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