The rain falls so steadily,
A late summer promise
In the fields of man,
Rescuing a desiccated world;
Crenated flora imploring of the sun,
“Is this not our time to die?”
A family estranged by conception
Withers in full view,
No offer made one to another,
No mention of pardon on the wind.
Gazes suddenly bow southward
Seeking shelter from a menacing gale,
Each weathers the storm furtively,
Knowing that he stands alone.
Where came this maddening isolation
Perhaps raised from doubt?
Was it not recently the glorious spring,
With familial legions as far as the eye could see?
But came the doldrums of summer
With all, fading under the sweltering sun,
And no offer of relief
From those richest among them,
No reprieve from the unrelenting heat.
But now they drink up this elixer of heaven
And not a word is spoken one to the next,
And they rise strong once again
Amidst the masses,
Albeit solitary sentries,
With lonely eye to the harvest of fall.