Thirst and Prayer
Bent
forward as if at the hips,
The
eucalyptus leaves press toward each other.
They
huddle, tips touching in an awkward embrace.
They
lean in,
To hide
themselves from the heat
To hide
themselves from the Sun.
Long
hours have passed since those leaves drank the meager drops of morning dew that
did little to satisfy their thirst.
The
leaves conserve what little moisture they hold,
Turn in,
and turn away from the day.
Raindrops
too few to count have teased the Earth with only drips from the sky,
Withholding
their treasure from my parched landscape.
Impatient
with the grim prospect of no rain forecast for the day, I feel pangs of
distress from the forlorn sight of the eucalyptus leaves.
I drag
the heavy hose to the backyard and stand for long minutes,
Drenching
the ground around and near the eucalyptus, soaking it to the drip line, sending
moisture to the chapped lips of the feeder roots.
A skirt
of a puddle forms around the tree when I cease watering.
Toward
dusk, the tree’s leaves open and move away from the huddle,
Their
arms are spread wide and reach toward the sky.
The
leaves lift in a prayer of gratitude,
As if
to say, “Thank you, thank you.
Thank
you for the life-giving drink.”
