September has arrived in Kanyakumari, but it still feels like summer. The rain we need has not come. The leaves show their thirst before the trees can tell us what they are losing, and each morning begins with the same question: how much water can we carry today?
As people who love agriculture, we hear about climate change and El Niño. We wonder what shifting weather patterns will mean for the seasons ahead. But on the farm, the worry is immediate. The well is giving less. The trees need more. And no matter how carefully we water them, we cannot make rain.
This poem is about that painful limit and the faith that meets us there.
The Almighty Is The Provider
By September,
summer was still visible
among the trees.
Each morning, I carried water
to the roots I could reach,
and watched the leaves
I could not save.
The well gave less each day.
The earth drank all I brought
and still lay thirsty.
How long can a man
water an orchard
when there is no water left?
I had called them my trees
because I had planted them,
pruned their branches,
waited years for their fruit.
But that afternoon,
with an empty bucket in my hand,
I understood:
I had only been a conduit
passing down what God sent.
The roots reached deeper
than I could see.
The clouds travelled roads
I could never walk.
So I stood beneath the trees
and looked up.
“Lord, I have done
all that I can.”
Then I went home
and left the gate open
for the rain.
– Shalini Samuel
The gate remains open. So does the farmer’s hope. He will care for the trees again tomorrow, with whatever water he has. Tonight, he waits for what his hands cannot bring.
