Beneath my bare feet, the Earth is cracked open and dry, clumped into rock-hard pieces.
Deep lines split the soil from one end of the garden to the other.
Surrounded by crisp, tanned grass, drooping, yellow leaves hanging wearly from the vines under the heat of July sun, I pray for rain.
Only what we've diligently watered via the hose is surviving, blooming, bearing fruit.
The other flowers have wilted and any flora in the sun's direct path all day has withered away.
And I hope for rain again, a deep soaking that goes beyond what I can provide from the hose -- a drenching, thirst-quenching downpour, saturating the landscape, reviving the color, the livlihood and beauty of summer.
In my uttered prayers, I find myself feeling much like the soil on which I stand.
Cracked. Dry. Parched.
Wishing and praying for that deep, soaking rain to brew up in the clouds of creativity and wash over my soul, reviving the words inside my heart and the vision wrapped in my mind's eye, hoping that the flood of water would fill the cracks and soften new fertile soil to bear deep, rich fruit.
And, in my prayer, as I see the dry, parched Earth in a new way, I am thankul, again, for the Gardener who waters my artistic soul even in seasons of drought.