The clouds hang low and heavy in my heart,

But I withhold the rain so I might go on,

Only an occasional shower

To saturate the ground

Holding the seeds of promise—

Never a flood to destroy them.

Soon an east wind will blow away the clouds,

So I press on expecting clear skies

And the warmth of the sun

To command the promises

To come forth

And bear the promised fruit.

© D.L. Lunsford