Come gently, rain down
on parched soil, souls
washing grass, and me
every thirsty thing
until fire is smoke
turning windward
a whisp, no more
(Tim Carson, September 2011)
Come gently, rain down
on parched soil, souls
washing grass, and me
every thirsty thing
until fire is smoke
turning windward
a whisp, no more
(Tim Carson, September 2011)
Rain is so refreshing, even as it cuts my morning walk short and soaks me before I get to the car.