The woods around here drip and steam,
each leaf is licked and slicked and trimmed
with last night’s rain, and every breeze shakes loose
another rain of drops. A silvered field
of grasses shimmers in the sun. Dim puddles
pool beneath the fading ferns a while,
then disappear into the thirsty ground.
Mist floats in bunches over hills, their ghostly
tatters trailing in the trees. The air
is dim this morning, dense with sweat.
But it is dry in these woods, and not wet.
This rain that passed and dropped its hanky here
has not relieved this drought. The stream bed’s blank.
The lakes are down. The land is thirsty still.
So I can be: devoutly praying, calmed
by sounds of running fountains in my psalms,
and yet I never stay enough to let the rain
soak in, soak in, go deep, and flood my soul.
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