Windlessly, clouds creep in from the west,
their weight easily borne by the thick, dense air.
In the garden, parched plants ache for rain.
The trees’ spring-fresh leaves droop
in the heavy stillness, praying.
Finally, off in the distance, thunder rolls
and all the green things hold their breath
in hope and anticipation. (Please! Please!)
It takes the rain a full hour to begin.
But then it falls in fat, cool drops that plunk
like the strings of a bass on the hosta leaves
outside my open kitchen window.
The fragrance of wet soil wafts through the screen
and everything rises and breathes its joy.