When the rains finally came they came in a torrent to bruise the heart of the hardest preacher and the waters stood six inches in the patient streets and in the fields rivulets streamed from the bone-puckered hides of cow and coyote coursing down to fill the deep brokenness of the puzzled earth seaming its pieces back together and in the glistening houses the dying opened their windows and knew, now, how to let go and the living opened their doors to kneel in lakes of sparkling sky knowing, now, how to hang on and children set sail paper boats —hundreds, thousands— pale as doves, brave as prayers.
Lee Ann Pingel
Lee Ann Pingel earned a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from UC San Diego but was too scared to try to make a living as a writer. So she got a master’s degree in political science from the University of Georgia but hated every moment of it. Upon graduating, she returned to her first love by becoming the editor for the University of Georgia’s Department of Independent and Distance Learning, a position she held for seventeen years. In the meantime, she earned a master’s degree in religion, which she loved as deeply as she despised political science. Most of her work revolves around themes of faith, doubt, and navigating a life marked but not defined by its wounds. She lives in Athens, Georgia, with her husband and a pathologically attention-seeking cat, although she prefers rats to any other house pet.