It’s a delicate responsibility, setting myself up as an envoy to the various rain gods. Easier, say, than being a peace negotiator in the Middle East, but almost as tricky. I peek at this morning’s headline: Bay Area’s first ‘real’ rain of season expected Wednesday. Today is Wednesday, and I’m trying to dampen my hopes. I remember how last year these promising paisley swirls on the Pacific supposedly heading our way bearing gushers fizzled, drizzled.
It’s a touchy thing to urge gods to focus. You don’t want to appear from above like just another clamoring earthling unsuited to the deserts of the real world. You have to look somewhat hopeful, optimistic. You want to look your best when you talk to gods, not like the despairing multitudes petitioning for an end to insane wars.
Let it come down: these thicknesses of air have long enough walled love away from love; stillness has hardened until words despair of their high leaps and kisses shut themselves back into wishing.
from “A Prayer for Rain” by Lisel Mueller