That storm seems to be forever perched

Just over the tops of the trees

Just over the furthest rooflines

I can smell the rain

The flicker at the feeder,

The finches waiting on the line.

The seed scatters,

Sunflowers rise up.

There it is, the volunteers,

The ones you could never see

That are suddenly there

Faces to the horizon

You know, past the steel gray clouds,

That sun awaits like the finches.

Some volunteer is going to be there for me

Just when I think all that spilled

Is lost,

Just when it seems

The reason for hope gives out its last,

Is when a desert bursts into bloom

There I’ll be

waiting on the line.

Written by Lydia Nitya Griffith, all rights reserved