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 as 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, 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; rain drops 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 a parched beggar. 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.