It Never Rains In Death Valley
Waking to the blessed melody of rain,
by Herbert Nehrlich
distant thunder, golden flashes near the school.
Resting tired eyes now staring at the stain,
left by the welcome deluge that filled the pool,
reminiscing of a past life in Death Valley,
where Mother Nature's furnace dries out your insides,
got the better of a maiden named Ann-Sally,
used to go into the heat for long joy rides.
Day came when Sally, who had not returned,
appeared to Mother Florence in a dream.
When she was found next to her vehicle, all burned,
it was sheer luck that one brief passing of the beam
of an Explorer flashlight's candlepower found her.
And she looked bad there in that cheddar lunar light,
scorched metal pieces, strewn at random all around her.
It was a sobering and mood-depressing sight.
A broken vertebra, a twisted knee, one missing finger,
she made it back, it took six months then to recover.
The moonlit memories will likely always linger,
how she was lying there, with hostile sun to hover.
All broken into small sarcastic dreams.
And fourteen rattlers, very near and seeking heat.
So when it rains like this today it surely seems,
that, intermittently, God's grace is hard to beat.