Cicadas

Cicadas shrieking in the heat
beneath a heavy sky,
yet thunderheads bring no relief:
The stormclouds slide on by.

The birds have all gone silent now,
and hidden in the trees;
as pentitents with bright heads bowed
they kneel behind the leaves.

Each breath is thick with undropped rain,
until we're drowning dry,
and still the thunder turns away,
the Levite passing by.

Where is the breaking of the storm,
the mercy from on high,
the tension snapping with the dawn
that ends the long-drawn night?

Where is the river heaven sends
to water all the earth?
Surely this desert never ends
and there is no rebirth!

Now that the locusts have their fill,
full silently they wait
'til heaven's chalice brims and spills—
Someday the storm will break.