After years of unrelenting drought,
a blessed rain is falling.
The earth sighs, breathing out
the freshening smell of damp.
In the wet wind,
brown seed pods,
copper pine needles,
pink pistache berries,
fat acorns and slender twigs
come tumbling down,
peppering the ground.
Bright burgundy and red
liquid amber leaves
litter the walkway,
leaving behind
their shadow imprints.
A feathery river of fog
rushes down the channel
between the foothills.
The far mountaintop
is blurred, mist-ified.
Every branch glistens.
Silver raindrops cling
to the edges of railings,
to the windowpane.
The earth seems still,
grateful, prayerful.
As am I.
For the parched,
there is no such thing
as ordinary rain.
Ann L. Keiffer
October, 2021
