Poetry

In each raindrop there is a kind of magic,
magic in the falling blue-white thunder,
the thunder that in a flash downward flick
 
the flick of something about which I wonder,
the wonder that again brings fresh new life,
new life to where seeds are turned under.
 
The bright rainbow has a own kind of spell,
a spell of time when the hot sun blazes,
blazes in brilliance as all is well,
 
while the deep well suddenly amazes,
amazes with water that is clear and pure,
pure to the taste as heat hangs in a haze.
 
Nothing can the power of rain remove
as overnight the grass and the crops jumps,
proving the great power of divine love.