The short-lived downpours we experienced this past weekend reminded me of an earlier poem I had written. Enough rain fell to revive the weeds but not the grass. And still the land remains sun-baked.
The Current Norm in Rainstorms
A slash of sizzling light from the hand
of a bellicose warrior rampaging
across a raven sky rent the moonless
gloom. Lightsabers stormed.
Wrath overtook the streets, gushed
over curbs, rushed like brigand bots
spewing mayhem in a parched city
as mortals huddled behind bolted doors.
The dragoon, riding the wind, moved on,
rallying the weeds but leaving withered
grasses slammed by the downpour
and the air clammy as a damp kerchief
tossed as he withdrew.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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