matinee

I hear the plop of raindrops hitting giant squash leaves. It’s as if someone is starting a slow clap. Staggered, a few more catch on, and then suddenly it collects into a small applause.

The sky is dimming; the clouds are being drawn closed like a curtain. The show is about to start. I imagine the soil making itself ready to receive heaven’s offering. Shakespeare’s quote, “All the world’s a stage,” fills my head.

Heaven does come down, and all is showcased on a humble dirt floor. Holy touches the fallen and the cursed with thistles and snares. The immortal invades the perishing, and everything is changed.

You know when it’s blowing in: wind chimes give a chanting warning; raindrops patter; the wind kicks up a whistling howl; rumbling and roaring give way to the splitting sky. Earth is to make haste below.

My plants and vines stretch upward like parched beggars. They wilt for water through summer. Droopy leaves are pouty for provision. It’s here now. Drink deeply and have your fill. Be renewed as heaven brims over a bit.

What a grand show, and the admission is free.

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