They predict an inch and you are in for three. Or more.
The Earth decides the way of the rain, and whether the gladiolus will rot or bloom,
If what is planted will strive or shrivel,
If fungus will be the final word.
If there will be enough flowers for the wedding, and which will be the surviving variety upon which celebration rests.
No one can prevent the course the Great Mother takes, though we may pray for healthy crops, we cannot demand that hand.
We can hope next year is better. Or next week, or month, or weeks until the frost comes.
There is comfort in the camaraderie of fellow farmers.
Everyone is in prayer and a furrowed in-flexed brow wears upon each forehead.
At least I know my sheep has a break from the mosquitoes and heat in the shelter from the downpour.
And though adaptations prove difficult for humans and animals to move from 70 degree weather to three sun’s heat over 100 degrees, we will find our adjustments.
And though the roof leaks, and the basement floods, and the field (in places) holds water –
I have a roof. I have a basement. I have a field.
And, thankfully, the weather and seasons flux with the ephemera of a flower.
May the elements be on our sides.