We sat on the porch

the old woman and I,

our rocking chairs squeaked

with every thrust of energy.


“Is it hard to live here?”

I wondered.


“Only if it doesn’t rain.”

The woman whispered,

her voice soft against the desert’s strength.


“Why stay in such a harsh place?”

I asked.


“Oh . . . the beauty.”

She answered.


Cactus bloomed with tissues of color as

insects danced amongst the nectar

gifted by the parched land.


Above, a graceful hawk pierced the air

slapping the silence with its flight.


The dusty porch faced the evening.

Our words drifted into a hidden peace.

Song birds filled our space and

clouds filled the sky.


“How long have you been here?”

My thoughts not yet quenched.


“Since the beginning.”

The old woman hummed as she eyed the past

nestled in the rusted machinery.


“This is God’s land you know.”

Her crevassed face and gnarled hands

caught the warm breeze.




“Oh yes. When He finished creation

He deposited the left-overs right here.

It’s ours to savor.”


The old woman relaxed in her rocker

and gazed at the drizzle

approaching from the horizon.

5 thoughts on “Time for Rain

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