Fall gently, rain, and soften fallow ground.
The winter’s grip on earth has been too strong.
Make this a place where flowers may be found.
I rake the season’s leaves into a mound
like long-held grudges, unforgiven wrongs.
Fall gently, rain, and soften fallow ground.
I yearn again for wrens in endless round
where icy silence reigns in lieu of song.
I long for last spring’s flowers to be found.
My fingers sift through dry clods, hardened, browned,
and wrestle weeds from beds where seeds belong.
Fall gently, rain, and soften fallow ground.
I look up past the oak whose boughs were downed
in January’s storm. O Lord, how long?
Make this a place where flowers may be found.
Thunder swells low and, trembling at the sound,
I close my eyes, once more this plea prolong—
fall gently, rain, and soften fallow ground.
Make this a place where flowers may be found.