Cloudy, with a chance of rain

With the waters,
I rise and,
under the burning sun,
dissipate as steam
until I am no more than a cloud,
flowing through the sky
as a grey mass
of moist energy,
waiting to be unleashed when,
tickling the ground,
my flourishes
shall paint rivers of brightness
upon a parched land.

Flow onward, my soul

—I drink to thee,
sweet life,
so full
of endless
possibility.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen