All day the crops burn in cloudless air,
Drouth lengthening against belief. At night
The husbands and the wives lie side by side,
Awake, the ache of panic in their bones,
Their purposes betrayed by purposes
Unknown, whose mystery is the dark in which
They wait and grieve. All may be lost, and then
What will they do? When money is required
Of them, and they have none, where will they go?
Many will go in blame against the world,
Hating it for their pain, and they will go
Alone across the dry, bright, lifeless days,
And thus alone into the dark. Others
in grief and loss will see more certainly
What they have loved, and will belong to it
And to each other as in happiness
They never did–hearing, though the whole world
Go dry, the hidden raincrow of their hope.
I found this poem achingly beautiful.
I stumbled on it at the end of an update written by a friend-acquaintance facing one of the most difficult experiences anyone could be made to slog through in life – an experience that could lead anyone to ‘go in blame against the world.’
And yet, it’s clear that she is one of those extraordinary people who has determined to ‘see more certainly what they have loved, and will belong to it.’