Sabbath Rain

 Not everyone reading this will feel the same way about the autumn's rain, I realize. But where I live, it was a hot dry summer and the recent rain was a gift.

Interrupting the interminable drought,
drops are finally falling
on parched pastures 
and withered gardens.
We have been waiting,
the drooping woodlands
and tattered roadside sumacs,
the bedraggled spicebushes
and I.

The days of lugging heavy hoses,
and pouring dirtied goat and chicken water
on newly planted sassafras trees
compulsively checking the weather report,
and inwardly groaning,
are over.

The rain asks nothing
but that we receive its blessing,
refreshing 
and rejuvenating
our weary souls.
The rain has come 
and all is green with gladness,
once again.

Hymns of the Morning

Hymns of praise to You, O Creator God

Hymns of rain pattering on new leaves this morning,
            of drips on the pond
            and wind in the boughs,
            the soft melodies of wood thrush and peewee
            and raucous cries of blue jay and nuthatch,
            of catbirds' murmuring musings and
            tanagers' buzzy cadence.

Hymns of trucks in the distance,
            their provision and the life within their cabs,
            of a husband's footsteps on old wooden floors
            and the teapot whistling in the kitchen,
            of neighboring roosters' early crowing
            and their hens' laying song.

Hymns of woodpecker's drilling
            and their young's insistent squawks,
            the whoosh of air beneath the vulture's wings
            and the twang of the green frog's call,
            of squirrels chattering
            and the vixen's scream.

Hymns of praise to You, O Creater God,
Hymns that tune my heart to You.