Republishing "San Juan Rain" by Oliver Harris

Whenever we get a good rain, I think of Oliver Harris and the great poem he wrote about San Juan Rain: (Published 1980 San Juan Centennial Sampler). Since we've been blessed with lots of rain lately, it might be appreciated by others.

San Juan Rain by Oliver Harris
Let’s share a tale of joy and pain,
A workman in the sun, A country long devoid of rain,
And toil that’s never done, Of dreams and sweat and cheatgrass seeds,
And digging in the earth,
Of hours spent toiling in a heat,
That’s like the devil’s hearth,
Of calloused hands, a sweat stained hat,
Of tools too hot to touch, Of grasshoppers that rat-tat-tat,
Warm water bags and such. There stands the man of whom we speak,
A nameless timeless soul. With a spade he seeks to break
The crusted burnt-up soil.
With forceful strokes of bar and spade,
The soil yields to his will.
But dry reluctance meets the blade;
The promise unfulfilled.
Though feet scarce move upon the ground,
His thoughts are free to roam.
And soaring now, they‘re outward bound
To young sons far from home.
There sleeps the dog in meagre shade. Black flies inspect his lips,
His teeth are worn, his muzzle gray, His hair all silver-tipped.
In shadow, images parade across his sleeping brain. His muscles twitch as there, he plays
With young boys once again.
And standing there in hipshot grace with heavy lidded eyes, A pair of horses, tail to face
To better fight the flies.
The smell of such a day as this Is turning, searing yellow, With landmarks bathed in shimmering mist
As through a smithy’s bellows.
Each afternoon for days on end
Above the western hills,
Looming full and dark and grand
The sky with darkness swells.
Mounting rainclouds tease the earth
where great cool shadows play,
And cooler still the spilling forth
Of icy sweeping spray.

The man now pausing, wonders
How it would feel to be
Beneath the distant thunder,
And makes a voiceless plea.
Each day the storm has skirted north
Across the mountain’s face,
And followed its unchanging course To bless some other place.

And so resigned, he bends to work,
The bar, hot in his hand.
So hot he thinks he’ll go record
“The smoking"crowbar " brand".
A vagrant coolness strikes his cheek.
A cloud goes scudding by, And he can hear the thunder speak,
And feel the rain clouds sigh. His heart is filled with longing,
A faceless, restless gloom, As rain smells sing a soothing song
Like love's long lost perfume.

The clouds grow, lowering, towering now,
Gustative, darkly hued And flickering inner lightening glows
With brooding life imbued.
Dark shadows waft across the ground,
The horses lift their heads,
The old dog hearkens to a sound,
And leaps up from the bed.

The first fat raindrops strike the man With burning icy thrill, He wonders that a day so hot Could turn so quickly chill. And suddenly with blinding flash, The lightning rends the air,
And on its heels tympanic crash Of thunder meets his cheer.
The horses lunge and kicking run
to flee the black deluge. And with a roar it starts to pour,
With raindrops thick and huge. From some lost recess in his soul,
repressed since childhood days, The man now soaked, begins to howl
As though possessed or crazed.

The lightning sees his stomping dance,
The thunder marks its time. The raindrops laugh to see him prance,
With cacophonic rhyme.
The old dog joins the frantic spree
in unaccustomed joy. Not having romped with muddy glee
Except in dreams with boys.

The storm resounding, pounding down,
lets up and then becomes A soothing, soft, susurrant sound,
A steady, humming thrum.
The man sits down upon a log,
with smells of mud and sage, And strokes the wet and puzzled dog That rests there by his legs.
Now we have seen how nature’s ploy Can help assuage the pain.
For nothing stirs all things to joy,
Like soaking San Juan rain!