For The Wednesday Muse Prompt, Summer Rain.
It hangs in the air like a shroud,
this heavy, brooding cloud of dust
through which the sun tries
to force its way; the same way
a frail old man, bent double at the waist,
tries to hack his way through dense undergrowth,
by dint of will power and persistence.
Suddenly, like a giant oak falling,
squashing dense foliage with its weight,
the heavens are torn by rain, and relief.
Peals of thunder, flashes of lightning birth
many miracles of tiny rivers suddenly sprung,
washing away the dust of earth baked dry,
after which comes the smell of new, clean things,
of rebirth and things made whole again.