Some are delicate tropical blossoms, ready for the rain they know will come with the thundering of afternoon. The catastrophe of a dry spell turns their soft, colorful petals inward, bereft beyond any hope of rescue.
Still others are succulents, roots dug deep into soil it knows will not see frequent rainfall. They wait, and they wait, never asking the desert why it remains a desert. Instead, they thrive on the mere suggestion of morning dew.
The blossom asks sadly, “Why do you not give me more?”
And the succulent replies, “Why is what I have not enough?”