The Farmer's Rain

Drops. In clots they come, Jetting down festers of The mean clouds that soar even higher. Down here, the feet of the soil are mere clod. Furnace rules upon the face of the waves, Brewed and distilled from faceless chimneys. The farmer’s rain is abroad. Drought yawns with anger among the choir of Desolate rainclouds. Skeletal drops. Measured in fingertips, They drip wastefully on the teeth of the tarnished hoe. A cloudburst comes to nothing as nightfall Descends upon lean, famished thresholds Laid waste by a running lightning.