For hours, the pregnant sky

splits.

Low beneath, thick oppression

holds.

Thunder crashes in her belly,

yet her water does not break.

Her scorch grows in

fury.

Unable to unleash a

deluge,

She strikes with dry lightning.

A mature sunflower

sighs,

drooped in the heat,

her younger companion—

head high in youthful hope

—foretastes thirst.

A few drops fall

but disappear too quickly

under parched skin—

cracked in heat and anguish.

Still, she lashes

out

heavy and hot,

the wind picks up,

and the spider web recoils.

Leaves shiver and branches bow.

Thick with swelter,

she hesitates

to open,

but then… finally,

awkward rain staggers into rhythm.

She finds confidence

slowly,

then wanes into a dribble;

more weight

presses

on growing fury.

Drooping leaves tremble,

parched plants beg for relief.

Silence prolongs

but when air runs out of breath,

the sky breaks.