While sitting on a rock in Granite Mountain, I wrote a poem.
Maybe Tomorrow It Will Rain
When I was told the desert was desolate, I thought it absurd.
But only when I sat on this stone did I understand that this deafening silence was one I had always heard.
I, like the toads, bury myself beneath the dirt while it is dry and think,
Maybe tomorrow it will rain.
I, like the flowers, take up as little space as possible, I shrink,
Because maybe tomorrow it will rain.
I, like the ocotillo, wait to show my leaves
Maybe tomorrow it will rain.
I, like the creosote, take love and hoard it from thieves
Maybe tomorrow it will rain.
I, like the mesquite, reach deep, so deep
I, like the gray fox, I creep and creep
I, like the finch, don’t make a peep
And I, on this rock, fear to make the leap.
But as I watch the snow melt into the earth, turning the plants green and making the flowers bloom,
I hope that one day it will rain for me too.
-Tayler King