After half an hour
with distinct drops
a light drizzle
pattering on the dense green leaves
of my patio garden,
walled and incongruous
here in Mexico's semi-desert,
it is now raining in earnest
water spouting forcefully
from the pipes that drain
the house's flat roofs.

Waves wash down my little kitchen window
rendering impressionistic
the view of the papaya leaves
just beyond,
drops in great number
find their way inside
forming along the bottom edge
of its poorly-set horizontal center pane
falling onto the sill
rolling down the wall
collecting in a little flood
a puddle on the aquamarine tiles
of that conveniently lower
corner of the floor.

The original room, the old office
fares much better than in the last storms
months ago,
the main central leak
where the water on the roof rushes past
is hardly active
while several in the far corner
where the water pools above
drop as before
plopping rhythmically into pots and pans
permanently positioned,
during the rainy season
for that purpose,
sounding like a tri-tone symphony.

But now is not the rainy season
at least not as it has been defined
during my dozen-year residency
in these highlands.
Still, more than half-way through my sixties
I have learned no truth more certain
than whatever regularity we may observe
is only a passing phase.

The country landscape is grateful for the rain
whenever it comes,
should it be two or three days
more or less in a row,
waking from their dry hibernation
hillsides and fields turn green
grasses sprout
plants spring to life
flowering in a week
given that length of repeated wet encouragement.

Still in short pants
I pull on a flannel shirt
the chill gathering weight
in the denser, moist air.
The patio's plants all seem dressed in new skin
wet and glistening
reflecting the luminous gray sky above.
I care for my walled garden as best I can
my worm farm turning kitchen scraps
into dark, rich soil,
but my water from a hose
in no way compares with that which falls from heaven.

In writing this homage
the rain has stopped,
in the next room, the office
drops poing less frequently
more reluctantly
into the pots.
But just now the rain's pattering
has begun again
on rooftop
and on the leaves outside.

I don't know what will happen
except that right now
I'm going to put on some long pants
and make a cup of tea.

by Dr. David Fialk, Editor / Publisher

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