.
Even in the storm
we dance –
on parched toes
we leap and twirl
our thirsty land
beneath the tumble
of a sky
that holds its breath . . .
then exhales inabluster.
Whirling through
the rising roar,
we raise our eyes
to slanted rain
then gambol high
across the hills
into the wind
above the trees
to thank the bow
that arcs
between the clouds.
.
(c) 2000, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Seasonings 