The thunder is sparing, the clouds dripping in beg it for more.
Not a flash or a spark, just the sound, the clap, the rolling roar.
Rain threatens but never acts. The grounds thirsts, unsatisfied.
Cool air slowly creeps, the pressure of air changing every second.
Dropping, sloping, sliding toward the inevitable, the desirable.

Not one, not two, not three hours but more.
Can the build keep pushing, keep structuring, keep drawing its goal?
How does the air become electric without her weeping pair?
Only the aching sobs of the timpani clue us to the mystery that brews.

Is it novel? Never. Not once. Nothing needs that.
And yet each and every, always and again. Brand new.

A deep breath. The breeze carries the chill ever lower.
A sparkle, a glitter, a glint, a gleam. Is it truly over? The agony of waiting.
Another cool prick, a pin on a palm, confirming the prophesied place.

The unique and the beautiful. All falling. All bringing a new world for tomorrow.

Let it snow.