"Drought"

This summer’s unrelenting heat means our yards dry a little more each day. I noticed today that several of the bushes out back have dead branches. Nature protects the core, and the peripheral appendages begin to wither. My heart breaks to see this loss.

Loss goes deeper this summer than wilting gardens. I’ve several friends struggling with serious health issues like cancer. I admire the strength they exhibit as they face each day with unbelievable optimism. They handle the new challenges life’s handed them with the unshakable conviction that every thought and effort will bring health back into their lives. For other friends, this summer’s trials come from aging parents needing live-in help, assisted living or nursing home care. Some friends will decide to move in with parents while others will move parents in with them.

            For the generation of our children, we see job opportunities drying up overnight. Imagine spending four years in college, taking out loans to finance this education, and not landing a job up to five or six months later. These adult children find themselves moving back in with their parents as they regroup. Some hold tenaciously to their college part-time jobs because “something is better than nothing.” Those still in school wonder and worry about next year’s opportunities. How long will this economic drought last? Onto this brittle landscape, I watch in frustration as our petty politicians play with matches.

            I know that we need rain. Not a flooding deluge that obliterates everything in its path, but a soft and steady rain—one that brings the sunrise in its wake, one that soaks deeply into the cracked ground, one that cleanses away the dust and cobwebs, one that heals our land.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Right Rain”

For the last few weeks, my yard and gardens have received just the right amount of rain to let me see how lovely life could be if, every night or day, three-tenths of an inch fell from the sky. Ireland’s lush greets me when I step outside. My daily watering ritual temporarily disappears. Some mornings, like today, I dump water from pots that overflow to prepare for today’s additional promises. This illusional bounty lets me fantasize about living in a lush landscape. I cast a wistful spell to keep cloud cover and raindrops overhead for as long as possible. For the moment, I believe with all my soul that our decades long drought ended without anyone taking note. I pretend we won’t suffer through a hundred days of a hundred degrees. I embrace this period of rightness without expectation it will last beyond the next few days. 

Copyright 2026 Elizaabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Swimming" 

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"Rain on the Rooftop"

  

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Soft Rain on a Quiet Night" PLUVOASMR

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"June Storms"

 

Before the storm

 

            Thunderstorms roll into San Antonio rarely during the long, hot summers. Wind thrashes tree branches, clouds darken to silvery gray, and lightning strikes shake the ground. Sometimes descending without warning, these fast-moving storms dump deluges that flashflood our neighborhoods. Other times, they swirl and spin in place providing a spectacular show.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Look, Look!”

 

 

             A deluge last night dumped five inches of rain at our home!
        As soon as our cloudy morning allowed, I grabbed my iPhone for the first round of pictures. By tomorrow, the drenched clover out front, along with various plants and flowering bushes, should burst into even more color. Nature’s renewal cleansed my flagging spirit.
            I am sad.
            I am hurt.
            I am frustrated.
            I am anxious.
            I am lost.
          Yet one night of thunder and lightning, of rain washing away the sins of the world, fills my soul with hope again.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Slippery When Wet”

 

 

            The promised rain arrived last night and continued through the morning. Jarred out of sleep with blaring weather alerts, I waited for sunrise before heading to the park to document the glory of a deluge. The runoff river flowed as designed with the lake its final destination.
            As my oldest sandals hit a patch of silt, I realized taking pictures there presented a slip-n-slide adventure. “Don’t do anything stupid,” my son’s frequent admonition turned me away from seeking a lake view shot. Instead, I recorded the slick stairs with a mental note, “slippery when wet” and returned home as lightning broke across the sky and thunder tapped against the car.
 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             

“After the Rain”

 

            As our area hits another spring of drought, I joyfully celebrate every time rain falls. Sometimes, with camera in hand, I document the clouds rolling in and record a deluge as it descends upon the house. Other times, my lens focuses on what happens after the rain when leaves bud, flowers bloom, and grasses grow overnight.

           

Our downpour the other night reminded me of other sudden storms and begged me to dive back into my photographs from previous springs and summers. Take a walk today and enjoy the world after the rain.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Going to Seed"

 

            We don’t mow our yard every week, and when we do cut the grass, we have our mower set to the highest level possible. Unlike our neighbors who labor continually in their yards, we take a careless approach to the lawn itself.
            We let our grass go to seed.
            All of the negative connotations of neglect seem insignificant because we’ve learned that grasses need to reseed. The long drought we’ve seen over these last couple of years means patches of our lawns have shriveled up. With this year’s rain comes relief, and the only way to reestablish section of our yard is to let it go to seed.
            I love walking through dew drenched grass in the mornings as I check the gardens and pond. The gossamer fibers tickle my feet. Later in the day, sunlight polarizes the hue of the grass, crisping the greens into sharpness. By evening, a slight breeze kicks up, and the seedy fingers of grass hula dance.
 
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
           

 
 

"No Ideas"

         Yesterday, for the first time since I started my blog, I skipped making a post. Usually if I haven’t had time to write, I’ll find an old poem or even repost a previously shared poem. Yesterday, the thought crossed my mind, briefly, that I needed to either blog about something or select a poem. Obviously, I did neither. Instead, I grabbed a shovel and a garden spade, headed out into the front yard, and began pulling (actually—digging) weeds.

         

The torrential rains from a few days ago left our skies clear and cerulean. A cool breeze fingered my hair as I knelt upon the damp earth while the background of birdsong provided the rhythm to my chore. You won’t hear me complaining about the clover that clumps in large patches in my lawn. I won’t whimper or whine about the dandelions that hit mid-calf and have shot roots three to six inches deep. Instead, I relished the mud that caked my hands and packed under my short nails. When I dug out a weed’s root and found the soil wet, relief flooded through me. These weeds mean the end of our long drought. At least for now, we’ve cycled into a weather pattern of cooler fronts carrying rain. Gray clouds boil across the sky, dump and inch or two of rain, and move on to another location.

          Once I removed the bush-sized weeds, David mowed. To anyone passing by, our lawn looks a lovely green. Most of the grass recovered from the scorching of the summer, and the mowed smaller weeds camouflage most of the damage the drought inflicted.

         So today, I have no new ideas for a blog post. In my mind, I’m kneeling in gratitude among the weeds, thankful in the knowledge that our Mother’s receiving the nourishment she needs to sow.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Puddle Reflections"

           Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

           Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

         The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Rain on the Rooftop"

  

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Umbrella Paradiddle”

 

walking in the morning rain
steps confidently secure
not a single fret for pain
morning’s aura warm and pure
thunder threads a distant plane
raindrops offer a soft cure
bold grackles dive into drains
tempted by the water’s lure
paradiddles tap refrains
against my shelter’s contour

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

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"Rain on the Rooftop"

 

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Prayer"

 

David Chapman-artist

Compassionate Mari       

            the land dies under summer’s cruelty   

            crops wither, leaf and fruit suffer       

            grasses scorch and burn   

  springs expose their bedrock     

  rivers recede, ponds evaporate to mist     

            livestock and wildlife die   

Hear my prayer   

 Gentle Mari   

            cry softly upon the Earth    

            soak our land with mercy   

            wash away our dust of prideful disbelief    

            shower kindness upon the fields               

            nourish our hopes with your grace   

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Rain Dance"

rain dancing on a hot July evening       

just before sunset the sky opened       

tinsel streaks sparkling       

we dashed outside with devilish grins        

heads thrown back in supplication       

arms akimbo       

knees bent like chickens’ legs      

an ancient dance of guffaws and belly laughs        

twirling in the rain with mouths open     

hearts wide       

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"My Obsession"

 

 

 

I awoke to silky rain.

No thunderous clouds boiling the morning skies,
nor fists of lightning pounding the heavens.

Just cool, smooth drops that gather on leaves,

pool together with a common goal,
and stream down to heal.
To nurture.
Scarce and valuable,
this liqueur makes me giddy.
Sheltering my lens,
I dodge under the trees.
My determined heart longing,
longing to capture
to record
to preserve this memory.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Rain on the Rooftop"

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman