Our rain must be brooding somewhere
far to the north,
keeping a prodigal's distance.
It's already cold, too cold
for anything from this country.
Nevertheless, it won't come home.

Up there, our rain falls slowly, thin,
not much more than a mist
soaked up by moss
and leaves deeper on the ground
than bad excuses.

Here it could wash away the dust
that turned trees brown in midsummer.
But our rain is lost, wasted
on a green landscape that doesn't need it
and never did.