Juneteenth 2015
Feeling the rain come
cave-cool air, white
and empty but for
the breeze.
Still water rushing
the trees, sleepy
birds sitting at rest
call out the change
while tone on tone chimes
echo from far below.
The drops fall –
spare, invisible, too few.
My dry, gray lawn
is thirsty and longs
for a drenching, healing
the brittle, breakable land.
Hollow grasses like so many
hollow words, ache to be
filled, water that would wash
away this dusty, aching
emptiness.
Dear God, may it pour.
c. Jody Lee Collins 2015
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