Not ominous—not dark and cloudy,
the day it rained grapes. A sudden shock
of exploding thunder and down they came,
not clusters, but separately like blue, red
and purple balls of bubble gum.
Cars slipped and skidded in the streets.
Juice flowed into sewers. Crimson rivers
foamed into the sea. Children in bathing
suits came out to play in the bouncing
downpour. The hungry and homeless
scrambled to save the sweets.
Some preachers hailed it as manna from heaven.
Others said it was an omen that the end was near.
Pagans stamped mounds of grapes into wine.
Orgies flourished. Church attendance dwindled.
War was deferred. Planes couldn’t fly.
Bullets were deflected. Roadside bombs
fizzled out. Frustrated Hawks cursed
the rain as a conspiracy of Doves.
Politicians sought disaster funds to clean up
the squishy mess. Artists returned to a Blue
Period, tried to capture the beauty of the sapphire
and amethyst mix. Scientists managed to fit
the phenomenon into their theories.
The media was of one mind, “Unprecedented.”
Weather experts differed about whether
the bizarre deluge would recur.
I’m not saying it won’t. But in seven years
it hasn’t rained anything. All earth-grown
grapes have withered away.
