Pink tip blossoms,
tightening hard as,
the hot night falls,
a dewy breeze tightens the buds.

I lavish attention on her red canna,
spritzing each folded petal,
making sure each one has been explored,
and pampered.

Slowly I plow the field,
breaking each bit of ground,
opening it further,
readying it for the down pour.

The storm builds,
approaching inch by inch,
the sounds are unmistakable,
then suddenly a flash flood.

As morning light starts,
the garden I start to tend,
natural beauty,
appreciated.