In this dry year,
the cottonwood leaves linger
late in December.
They rattle
a parched prayer
or poem, perhaps.

Whispering, “rain,”
they stay long past
their fellows fallen
into mulch in the gutter.

Whispering, “rain,”
they cling to their post
on sacred duty.

Whispering, “rain,”
they cannot let go
as clouds gather.

Whispering, “rain,”
they will not drop
until they are answered.

Whispering, “Rain!”

mjh

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12/16/02

Listen to Whispering, “Rain!” (35 seconds)

My Virtual Chapbook (table of contents)