The rain teases the earth,
and sprinkles on it feathers with a miserly abundance,
careful not to disrupt the reticulated cracks
in the midst of their siesta in the fields.
A seed, left forgotten,
waits to uncurl itself into a seedling.
A girl, her feet covered with wanderlust,
looks at the raindrops,
And wonders if in other lands,
it rains pebbles, or even pigeons.
In another city,
the land is being bludgeoned.
Clouds whose arrival was heralded a week ago
now come down in swarms,
a belated answer to the winter’s prayer,
A winter that had been ragged and ravaged
by the insensate summer,
A winter with broken hips and parched lips,
Whose cold breath had been paralysed
By the harsh tongue of May.
Ah, the same winter now looks from a place afar,
And is glad for the showers that envelope the town.
I stand somewhere between these two towns,
Wondering where you might be sleeping right now.