June Rain

The farmer watches

fog dipped green peaks

darken deeper green

leaves drip green

the stream overflows.

It’s past blossom drop,

branches beaded with

cold slowed peaches shiver

under shiftless clouds

clumping and unclumping.

 

He has already surrendered

prayers, a lucky back-up

rabbit tail and his favorite hat

to make the rain stop,

and now he waits,

surveying the fresh mown hay

where it lies wet and rotting.

He finds himself idling

somewhere between

the notion of rain

as gift or grief.

 

It isn’t until he hears the bee

and sees the rose

planted generations ago

aflame against

the old stone wall

that he claims the gift,

releasing the grief to find

its own dark night,

and dreams of biting

into the juicy sun,

light running down his chin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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