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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DROUGHT IN SUMMER, by                    
First Line: Kentucky june should be
Last Line: On the hills the birds sang.
Subject(s): Drought


Kentucky June should be
A season sweet with honeysuckle
In the shade of country lanes
And pink and white with clover blooms
In patches through the fields.
But now the land lay brown and dry
As last year's apples left to rot beneath the tree.
Farmers muttered when they met
Of rains so long delayed that now
They could not hope to save the crops.
And housewives chattered of the garden stuff
That dried before their anxious gaze --
Young plants limp and sere
Before they'd borne a bit of fruit --
Bean vines withered as they bloomed.
"Tobacco's gone," they said, "but come a rain
Next week, the corn'll still be good."
"what will we can?" the women asked,
"How'll we make it through the winter time?"
"I've not put up a single quart," they sighed.

It rained one night, not much,
Only enough to still the white dust
And leave a mist over the fields
In the early morning.
All the little animals rushed out,
The rabbits and the squirrels.
They ran about the yard, close even to the house.
I think they were delighted
By the wetness of the grass.
The ragged robin stretched out long lines of blue
Beside the road. And overhead the sky
Was cool above the thirsty hills.
It granted respite for a while.

Our Negro hand, named Joe, came in one day
Much stirred with tragic news he brought:
A neighbor man had shot himself --
Got the gun from his wife --
Propped it on a bale of hay --
Contrived to work the trigger with a cob.
It was his wife who found him --
She ran to look when she heard the shot --
Found him with half his breast blown out.
My mother went to help. I've often asked her why
When death occurs, the neighbors all troop in
So clumsy and so grave, to stand in little knots --
Here the women, there the men, talking still of crops.
But whispering now lest they should disturb
The sudden dignity of those who die.
My mother, wise in country ways, only shook her head
And said, "It would never do
For us to stay away."

The days went by in waves of heat.
They rose through fierce mornings
To long sullen afternoons,
The sun was like a tiger, mouth agape and red tongue
Lolling out.
He sprang to seize the earth
And strip it to the bone.

July came in.
The wheat was cut and threshers moved
Their cumbersome machines that look like docile Dinosaurs.
They left huge stacks of yellow straw
To mark the shorn fields. There was nothing now
The men could do to save the other crops
Which burned beneath the sun.
Our Joe mowed weeds in drying fields.
Through all the weary afternoon there was no sound
Above the constant hum of insects
And the intermittent flutterings of birds
Except the click, click his mower made
As it turned in time to the mules' slow tread.
We women sat within the darkened rooms
Of this old, high-ceilinged house.
The shutters had been shut against the sun.
Familiar rooms looked strange and different
In dim, half-light. The high-backed chairs
Made shadows with their carvings on the wall;
The silver vases held remembrance of bouquets
And quiet pools of light on polished surfaces
Caught all there was of coolness in their depths.
We wore light, thin things, and tried to sew or read,
Except the one of us who was in love. She listened
As the great clock ticked the hours through.
To her it said, "He'll come. He'll come."
Beneath our talk, her thoughts ran out to him
As steadily and sure as rivers run
Their courses to the sea.
At last the great sun, angry red,
Dipped down into the misty west
And threw behind him as he vanished
Bright spears of light that struck into the clouds.
Softly then the little winds began to stir.
They lifted up the leaves and touched the earth
As gently as a lover's fingers
Touch his loved one's tired eyes.
Then rest and the night with the stars were come.

In the night the rain fell.
Quietly it came, no storm preceding,
Pouring out in torrents the long awaited
Rivers of healing,
Drenching the heat-baked world,
Cooling the fields with silver sheets.
Men stirred in their heat-heavy sleep
And stretched their legs to feel
The coolness soaking through.
The women woke. They rose and pattered with bare feet
To shout the windows
Where white sails of curtains billowed in the wind.
Then in the dawn the mists swirled
Across the creek beds, new running with the rain.
On the hills the birds sang.





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