summer storm

Coy virga leave the ground unsatisfied
it's hot, thick breath's been wasted on thin air
the gust-front kicks around what laid there, dried
but all its moisture's carried off, elsewhere.
The desert flora specialize in dearth,
but every year or two, still need a storm
delivering redemption to the Earth
in places where to desiccate's the norm.
Bright scarves of rain, dark veils of steel-grey sleet
with thunder syncopating melodies
still leave this courtship dangling, incomplete
nine times in ten, it's just a dry-run tease.
When wadis gush, and grabens inundate
each Blue Moon sees this drama consummate.