Zimbabwe

 

When dark clouds loom on the horizon
And my skin drinks in the first few drops
Of what I am sure will become a deluge,
It is then that I remember:
Zimbabwe.
 
The way the sun beats down upon one’s back,
The little rivulets of sweat between the shoulder blades.
The lazy drone of bees from the house next door,
How even the dogs sought shade,
Tongues lolling,
Waiting for relief.
The many people passing by the grass-covered fence
Nearly ceased their chatter
As the heat bore down,
Oppressive,
Making even the hardy bougainvillea
Falter and turn brown beneath its wrath…
That’s when it would come,
The rain.
 
With the sight of that white sheet
Sweeping down across the hills
There came a choice:
Find shelter or become one with the rain.
The first drops always brought the smell
Of life.
 
The children just outside the gate hurried on—
No time to stop and call today.
Their high-pitched voices trailed off into the distance.
And then it came.
 
Suddenly, with a quickness to take one’s breath away—
Neither harsh nor gentle,
But stern; no mistaking it had come.
For a few moments the carefully laid path
Would become a surging streamlet,
With only a few brave stones to serve as steps
Across the yard.

The falling rain was background music
Stilling dust that rose from ribboned roads.
 
So that is why, when I see dark clouds gather
And hear the rush of coming rain,
There is a smile on my lips, and I whisper in my heart,
“Zimbabwe.”