Rainy season

During the rainy season, it's warm in the morning. The humidity builds, and the clouds break. The sun assaults my skin, searing. As if to say, you weren't made for this place. The evenings are balmy, the air is thick and glazed. The sun falls down after the moon has long since made his appearance, and just after that, a cool breeze rushes in, serenading. It says to me, ahhh, relief.

You made it through another day.

And late in the night, the thunder cracks and rolls, the sky opens, and the water rushes out, an uproar. Sheets and pillars of water. 

And Haiti sings. That rhythmic pulse of every drop of water that splashes, and every surface that is soaked.

The calm comes after the storm.

And I hope.

But because my hope falls short,

I pray.

That there will be a calm after the storm in me.