Rain at last has come to wet
The parched dust in the yard and bring
The green back to the lawn. The spring
To come should fill the farms with fruit
Enough to feed a hungry people.
A fertile season seems to me
To be quite contradictory.
Since she is dead I think it simple
Logic to expect the earth
To grieve as I must grieve. Her voice
Is stilled. We cannot hear her choice
Of words to draw a shy one forth,
Or teach a novice what to do
When all the protocols have failed,
Or speak a belief she closely held,
Or analyze a problem anew.
The quiet creeps along the gloom
Pooling in the room. The rain
Falls steadily to wet the lawn
And promises that spring will come.
After Spring Rain -- Nikolay Krymov