Past the Time of Picking

Kneeling on the ridge
a flower of a cloud watches the valley,
blossoms of moisture
contained within its petals.
I am in the valley waiting, dry,
yearning for the first rain.
I can feel it nudge my eyes,
dancing in the air
but really, it isn’t there,
as white darkens to dusk then charcoal
and I hear the distance rumble.

I am swept away by ions movement
up past the trees and the canyon walls,
right up to the moment of beginning,
in need for rain, I call.

Feeling ripe, past the time of picking,
I understand the leathered skin of fruit,
and the brave joy of children in the sprinkler,
from the birthing bed
they have grown tall with thirst,
and live straining to hear
the clouds in concert,
consort like patient lovers,
their majesty threaded, puffed and shredded
in the high singing winds.

Clouds contemplate the dry hills,
wanting to touch their tongue to the hard dirt,
to open the river slim of a canyon’s skirt
and lick with moisture this lacking.
Yes, the river will be first.

And then,

A June-bug in July bowed at my bare feet
as I watched the leaf walking that was on top her
and wondered what magic I had caught,
a captured iridescent queen
under dry vegetation's screen,
was the perfect plea, for I could see the dust
upon her wings.

And then it rained like all get-out,
she flew away between the drops,
and the other (me) got drenched
in the end it seems.