The cold rains of spring come every year;
Driving down from the heavens,
Flashing from the dark cloud masses,
Creating a muddy mess of bogs, puddles, and torrential streams.
Humans hunched over against the gusts scurry about
Encased in Gore-Tex and plastic grimacing at the windy wetness.
Cars and trucks driving on dirt roads and grass driveways,
Spinning tires helplessly boring tracks into the sodden turf.
Cold winds whip the rain into a pagan frenzy,
Piercing every crack and cranny,
Thundering upon the rooftops, battering against windows and doors,
Wetting all, inside and out, like the waves of a stormy merciless sea.
Beasts of the fields huddle furtively under bushes and rocks;
In their dens praying in their primitive minds while
Hungry bellies rumbling, beseeching, cry out for a coming soon of
Sunshine, warmth, dryness and life-giving food.
Only poets and madmen wander around on such days
Staring upwards with mouths agape
Feeling the pressure of the rain on their upturned faces
Laughing joyfully, manically—with complete abandon.
Wondering, hoping, willing for the wildness of it all,
The spiritual connectiveness to all things—praying that the
Cold rains of spring last forever;
For at least this year…
Chuck Connors, March 17, 2010