The woods around here drip and steam, each leaf is licked and slicked and trimmed with last night's rain, and every breeze shakes loose another rain of drops. A silvered field of grasses shimmers in the sun. Dim puddles pool beneath the fading ferns a while, then disappear into the thirsty ground. Mist floats in bunches over hills, their ghostly tatters trailing in the trees. The air is dim this morning, dense with sweat.
But it is dry in these woods, and not wet. This rain that passed and dropped its hanky here has not relieved this drought. The stream bed's blank. The lakes are down. The land is thirsty still.
So I can be: devoutly praying, calmed by sounds of running fountains in my psalms, and yet I never stay enough to let the rain soak in, soak in, go deep, and flood my soul.
__________________ Steve Garnaas-Holmes Unfolding Light www.unfoldinglight.net
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