Three years after living in a desert and watching how dusty, barren, and survival became the metaphors for how most things were at the time, rain is still a relief.
It's always a relief, because I can still find that desert. I know the trails to take to get there. I can instantly drop into survival with little reason or urging. It's like depression, the more times you've been depressed in your life, the more likely you are to become depressed at some point in the future.
However, the barren, rugged terrain is where poetry grows. It's a cruel joke. When I find myself stumbling through whatever my desert is this year, I trip and fall next to a flower. Hopefully, I didn't crush it on the way down. The flower is ugly and brown around the edges, but it's still a flower. It's leaves are brittle like burnt paper and it has thorns. And it's the first flower I've seen in months.
I spend a few minutes considering ripping it from the ground, but I've learned a bit of a lesson. Most times I let the idea of that flower get tossed around in my head until a story comes. If I were wiser, I'd write all the stories I've collected down. But they are transient, and most times the desert kills them anyway.
Stories need to much water and care to survive the desert.
The flowers were only meant as seeds, not hope. Maybe someday I will bring my flowers out of the desert. I will carry them to water and let 'em grow into the stories that I need to tell.
In this generous climate, the rain comes to you.