Pressure
Sometimes I dream of tears
rushing like fat, slaking globs
of rain after the drought.
Rolled in dust – marking dry rivers
at first as the wilting landscape
looks on desperate and
panting.
Blobs tense from the need to burst with wetness.
Flow, pour, flood me with quench, it urges,
no deluge is too much for
we desolate and dessicated.
At last, thunder clatters like an accident,
electricity pings with anticipation of wreckage.
Some mangled carcass.
Cracking. Crackling.
Sobs splat wetly as relief washes
over everything. Shuddering
and crashing until the storm has passed
and the skies are clear again.
Photo by Joydeep Sensarma on Unsplash
