The Coming
As I hurried to the trail today with some rapidity,
The air seemed to be weighed down by its own humidity,
From the surface the heat rose,
To dance as droplets of sweat at the tip of my nose,
Every leaf seemed to be still and expectant,
Like holding their collective breath for the moment,
When the wind would spread the happy news along the way,
Hearing which the trees would lift up their boughs and sway,
The clouds will rumble dark and low,
To burst open and pour their joy on the land below,
Yes, all creation seemed paused in hushed expectancy,
For the coming of the dark faced lord, to dance them to estascy.
--shubha
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