Where Has All the Rain Gone?


Naturally, or unnaturally it seems, we’re experiencing a drought where I live just when I’ve started to garden again. Community members scour the skies, and hunker down in front of the computer weather sites while keeping their phones tuned to weather apps. Time and again I have watched a promising storm split within a mile or two and circle around us. We water incessantly, nearly every plant has already peaked before June, new temperature records are set daily.

This is life in the new climate, I fear. The art of growing food becomes more than a practice in sustenance, it becomes a leap of faith. I can only plant the seeds, and hope our well doesn’t run dry. Water becomes more precious than gold. The guidelines set by local county extension offices are now meaningless. A seismic shift in seasons sends us all reeling — even the wild ones who are frantically trying to raise their young feel fast-forwarded by weather extremes.

And yet, I wake early every morning anticipating what I will find growing in the garden and what has pushed itself up from darkness, not caring whether it was watered from a hose or the sky, the will to live overriding all.

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May Day

DSCN5851
Yeah, it’s seventy degrees and
snowing in my part of the yard

so don’t look now there’s
a worm that didn’t quite make

it back to the loam, but flowing
fringes of procreation still

shed off as light as ribbons
twining lilac haze with a dance

toward sweet interludes inside
dawn’s cabana drenched

in wet morning song full
of pollen and propagation

and progeny and purity and
proliferation and seed.