From the west, low peals of thunder announce
the coming rain, its scent perfuming the air
that wafts across the spring-green fields.
At their edges, maples lift red buds skyward
like children sticking their tongues out
to catch the rain’s first drops as they fall.
You can feel the wanting and waiting of it,
of its joyous anticipation, and hear it breathe
in whispered song, “We’re alive. We’re alive.
We’re alive, my dear. It’s spring,
and we are alive.”