And even though these clouds have passed over,
leaving behind parched and dusty soil,
patches of brown or wheat
in place of verdant green,
I flower still.
In these years of drought
You keep me alive,
surprising me with beauty and strength,
wild blossoms that will not wither.
For my roots reach to waters deep.
And if not for hope
that thickens stalk and leaf,
this heat would stifle my breath and seep
who I am out of me.
Yet I have found reason
to lift neck and hands high,
to raindrops and dust clouds alike,
a little flower exultant in praise,
confident in the promise of life.
For where can faith burst forth
except in dryness and desolation,
or life brim full,
if not in a void of earth.