by JEFF BARTON
No rains in November. Nothing. Nada. And December’s skies have barely spit on the lands of Buda and Kyle.
– News reports
With due respect to Bing
And all our holiday bling,
What we’re dreaming of this Christmas night
Is not the stuff that turns us white.
Rather, without regret,
We dream of getting wet.
Sure the recent drizzles have been fine.
They came, in fact, in the nick of time.
But fears of a dry-eyed La Niña still feel prophetic
Since our lakes and creeks look just pathetic.
Yes, we’ll take any sprinkles we get –
But here’s to getting really wet.
You can have your elves and your reindeer,
Your grog, and nog, and Hanukkah cheer,
If you live in this part of Texas you don’t have to explain:
Your neighbors know you’ve asked Santa for rain.
Oh, you bet, you bet,
We dream of getting wet.
With every Christmas card we write,
Sent off to lands decked in white,
We step to the mailbox across cracked ground,
Through fields and yards tainted brown.
Together with our livestock and our pets,
We dream of getting wet.
Watering the potted plants, watering the grass,
Bathtubs full of water more precious than gas.
It’s not sugarplums that whet our fetish,
Dancing in our heads are thoughts of getting wettish.
Like a Christmas marionette who can’t forget:
We dream of getting wet.
O for a Christmas like the ones we used to know –
And of course here we’re not talking of snow.
But for days that now seem oh-so-charming,
Back before we knew of global warming,
We’d dream of what beneath the tree might be set.
Now our dreams are simpler: of getting wet.
So if you live where treetops glisten,
Call round the children and have them listen
To our stories of drought and pain.
Send us not presents, but prayers for rain.
We love this land where we live and yet,
We’re scared of yuletide fires. We dream of getting wet.
Jeff Barton is an urban planner and a shareholder in the Hays Free Press. He writes this column once every blue moon, more or less.
