When summer drought was choking earth with dust,
our yard became a dry and parched terrain.
My husband sat and fumed in mild disgust
and wished each day a thousand times for rain.
“Why don’t you turn the sprinkler on?” I said.
“Because I can’t afford such great expense,”
he groaned and looked for storm clouds overhead
and wished a gully washer would commence.
Then thunder boomed; a streak of lightning popped
and rain came rushing down from clouds of gray.
“Wasn’t that nice?” I asked, when it had stopped.
His only words: “It washed my soil away!”
c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols