The Yawning

A clap of thunder filled the earth,
the heavens wept, the mockingbird.

A flash of lightning filled the sky,
and crickets sang their lullaby.
 
The night wind crept on little feet
and whistled past the apple tree.
The moon hid behind a cloud still,
trying slyly to peek out.
 
The dry, cracked earth drank heaven’s tears
like a withered face consumed with years.

Then the yawning little sprout
stretched wide its arms and wandered out.
 
Rising up to touch the stars,
its tender limbs rose through the scars.
 
What thirst had withered, grace restored.
So every wound becomes a door.