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
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