Summer, with rains swelling like a Tolstoy story
of men sent to war, of bravery and cowardice,
of man questioning putting himself in harm's way,
who, what influences your pouring?
Cloud bursts and cracking skies lit by bolts of wonder,
of uncertainty, of suspicion,
do you feel the feeling of self-preservation
or of self-implosion?
Does justice consequently actualize in your humidity,
in your ideology of warm front meets cold front confrontations?
Sizzle summer, then pour.
Make the wheat germ swell and fields flourish
for in some other part of the world,
some other farmer's crops are failing
and this is what leads to war.