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Waiting For Rain
It feels like it should be
raining drops of
sorrow that slam like doubt against windows
and house.
Lightning should be streaking across the sky,
threatening thought, or at least rolling thunder
heard miles within hope.
Maybe a blizzard, flakes large enough to
suffocate, a wind that cuts through clothing
and saws at bone.
Or perhaps a flood, plague of locusts, a famine,
maybe an ice age, or just a giant meteor coming,
a signal towards a new beginning and end.
The sun slowly peeks its head above house, where
the sleeping are held, trapped in dreams I wish I
could be a part of.
You can feel the rain coming though, heavy as
tension before first kiss.
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