She makes music of sorrow, sighing and singing soft and low to the summer ferns. The land is dry; she hears the soil and trees keening for rain in her sleep. So she sings to them, on the balmy nights beneath the burning stars. She cries for them.

She knows want and she knows lonely.

She has abandoned, and has been abandoned; just as the rain has forsaken the earth.

She sees rain, sometimes, slipping through the clouds. Her eyes ghost over the earth and turn back to heaven, and in those arms she stays.

She will kiss the earth while rain withholds her bounty- she is fire, and she blankets the earth with ash thick and warm. She weeps writhing, decimating scarlet over the summer ferns, but it ends their crying. They sigh and fall to ash, meshing with trees and brush and creatures too old or feeble to escape the searing heat of her embrace.

She watches the sky but the smoke does not call rain down. She loves rain, as earth and her children love rain. Rain ruins her, quiets her; rains affections quit her wandering, destructive ways.

Fire rages and snaps, climbing higher and higher, numbing earth as she rises. She reaches her glowing fingers high, calls rain by name and finally, she turns.

She reaches down, kisses fire, and as their bodies meet they hiss. Rain is forced to take refuge in air, and fire is steadily doused by rains cool touch.

Rain prevails, falling heavier and harder as fire grows weak. With a final sigh she nestles into the ash she's made of earths children, sleeps.

And earth reaches upward with tentative, green fingers to feel the love of rain again.