Waiting for the Rain

Waiting for the Rain
The sky hangs heavy, bruised and low,
A blanket pulled across the day,
While trees stand silent, row on row,
In muted greens and shades of gray.
The pond lies still, a mirror dulled,
Its surface taut with quiet dread,
As if the very air has lulled
The world to hold its breath instead.
A promise lingers in the clouds,
That gathering, expectant mass—
The earth below prepares its shrouds
Of thirsty soil and yellowed grass.
We wait, suspended in between
The what-has-been and what-will-be,
That precious pause where hope is seen
In every dark uncertainty.
For rain, when finally it comes,
Will break the tension of the sky,
Will beat its wild and ancient drums
And teach the dormant world to cry.
But now—this moment, tense and tight—
Before the first drops start to fall,
We stand beneath the fading light
And wait for rain to heal it all.