Trust In What Will Come

The limbs bow in thirst, with efforts in morning stretches,

Parched and dry, cracking in the reaching,

Yet always arching toward the sky, 

In hopes of moisture in raindrops,

Some relief from persistent heat.

Droplets seem idly standing by, 

Unwilling to descend. 

The heavy air beckons they let go,

Allowing a trust to enter in,

Exuding, instead, a hot air balloon effect of floating upwards.

A reminder note we all should jot as we cling to the ache to feel control.
Every droplet we try to persuade, leaving us lacking
In the trust of what will come.

Sometimes when we least expect a blessing,

What we need rains down upon our heads, undeservedly.