July 22, 2009

Rain on a scalding desert.

It's raining.
It falls upon the dust that has become the soil
for lack of water for so long.
all the weeds have long succumb to the scalding heat
and the trees no longer have leaves,
their branches slowly cooked to the sun.

Yet this blissful liquid of life
turns to smoke as it first touches the ground.
The yellow of light is to much.
The reflection of it in the pale sands
blinds whoever willingly watches it.
But, suddenly a first drop touches the earth.

Silence is the only noise that the air can bring itself to spread.
Then a second drop falls. Then the next.
The dust rapidly soaks into mud,
The rust branches of the dead tree fall to the ground
shattering like the light that now shines
through the dense grey mist of the sky.

And the unbreathable air of scalding ash
dissolves to reveal nothing but an atmosphere
of purity and invisibility.

It is not so hot anymore.
Now that the drops from the sky are common
the feeling of a burning prison is gone.
Now, there is only the rain and the new tree
that has since started to grow.

It will be again as hot as once was.
Yet nothing can be done to prevent it.
There’s only a hope that the scalding sun will keep hidden
in the white of the blue sky;
that the air will keep being breathable
and that the tree lives still in this new land
of natural rationality.

Maxwell R. Black
22 Jul 2009