The Desert

I was panting

Eyes blurred

Hands raking the parched earth

Mouth dry, full of dirt

I say your name

Softly at first

Without warning

Drops to quench my thirst

Pour onto my face

From the heavens

I see clashing

Light and dark

In slow motion

softness turns to storm

I'm tossed

By the wind

My frail form thrashes

Yet is glad for the relief

The draught is gone

But storms wage

Warring against me

I wasn't ready

For the tides that came

Could not hold my own

But then

Calm

The desert gone

The storm subsided

My tired form

Taken up

Rescued

—Whitney

Writing