Before the Rains Had Come

The design committee for making the world

had stalled with the problem of drought.

“We have the sea over here, the desert

over there—how many roads do we need,

how many trucks, how many miles of pipe?”

At the back of the great hall stood the daughter

of the doorman, who had brought him supper.

She pulled him down to whisper in his ear

her dream of the mystery of mist. “My child,”

he whispered, “that makes no sense at all.”