When I was a child, we danced
feet thumping on the concrete tank,
voices ululating to conjure rain.
When the drops splatted down,
we ran shrieking inside
to claim our reward
from grandma’s pantry.
But my children,
those small unbelievers,
scoff and refuse to dance.
(And even if they agreed,
would the steel tank hold them?)
So I leave car windows down,
and hang out the washing.
But at the last I hesitate,
before the final sacrificial rite,
spilling the remaining water,
onto the thirsty garden.
Is it my faith, weakened with age,
that makes the magic fail?
Or does dancing
no longer conjure rain?
anotherKate 