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
Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
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