Drought

We need the rain, the welcome guest,
The grasses crack, the leaves rattle, and turn
to dream of summer coming in the dark.
The autumn burns on an August tree
when stars ride unconcerned above the clouds,
forsaken as the roots reach dust below.
No rain cuts the night to crystal
because the promised storm rumbles
possibility, but dawn fires in the east
and rings within forget their count
and a weight of wind rattles the metal leaves.
Then silences come across the hills,
where the eyes lift up to smoldering skies again,
and drop to life and death in valleys beneath
another length of dead-long day again.
We need the rain.
We need the rain.