Hope is a beautiful thing.

Our hands were lifted up high
Over the heights of our heads.
We felt the water coming.
Before now, we’d hide our pails.
We were angry at the rain.
We carried our umbrellas
To never be drenched again.

But the water never came.
And the leaves shared in the drought.
There was no more petrichor.
No more dew in the morning.
The wells knew well to dry up
The cloud had held back its tears.
Doubt came with a good feeling.

Leonell.