Dry Like Ground Beneath a Cactus

A poem that remembers how rain used to fall in California

Photo by Marisol Benitez on Unsplash

Rainfall is still missing in action,
and the blue sky’s splendor
brings subliminal trepidation
along with spoken acknowledgments
of the beauty of the day,
another beautiful day
with no moisture in the forecast
as once-buoyant reservoirs
return their reserves to the sky.

Are rain dance prayers the same
as rain-dancing feet, soles and souls
beseeching unseen powers for watery relief?
Are wishes for a week of rain
any better than wishing wells
that swallow pennies?

I remember umbrellas, remember forgetting
them at the most inopportune times,
uttering whispered curses
as the water fell with such relentless purpose,
reeled in like a fish
with gravity as the hook
and predictable weather patterns as the lake.