The first rains are supposed to be cleansing.
You poured down onto my body,
like a monsoon cloud burdened with rain,
sharing your bounty,
and flooding me out.
The first rains are supposed to be healing.
No fruits from your shower,
grow tall within my soil.
For when you rained, you poured;
and took from me the fertility I kept–
for when you rained, you ruined.
The first rains are never what they seem.
I can tell when we began,
but not when we will end.
Isn’t that tragic?