The Promise of the Wind

A parched land dreams clouds in ten shades of black,
The wind hears the want in the earth’s hollowed cracks,
A wilted flower hopes a nearby pipe will spring a leak,
Through its dangling, petalled hair, the wind brushes its cheek.

Promise as it will, the wind cannot rain nor can it weep,
But to call a storm, that is a promise it can keep.
So kiss the ground, dear Wind, with lips moist, sincere,
Dance with the flower as you draw thunderheads near.

“Give me the wind?” you ask, “or draw for me the sea?”
Rain down your love, breathe far-mountain’s dew on me.
Rain on me, my Dear, shower me with your love!
The wind is your oath, your presence—life from above!