Cycles

For the water cycle:

It gets hot, it gets heavy,  it comes down

For my pay cycle:

It gets thin,  it gets light,  it comes hard

Pay day would break like cloudburst

But my nickels and dimes would evaporate

Faster than they could infiltrate

My bank account

I'd have no ground water to tap

Parched in drought at the end of the month

I'd raise my eyes to the sky and wish for rain

But as money dried up,  I'd wet the nib of my pen

And spill my all upon a page

And though my reservoir rarely held enough for more than a McChicken

It filled with thoughts, hopes, jokes and notes

As I reached down into it -

My fingers searching within like roots -

I'd bloom in song and verse

Soul rich and penny poor

My concerns would gather like puddles

Reflecting the arching rainbow above

A promise that times wouldn't be so tough

Or if it did,  I'd have enough

For my narrative cycle: 

It gets heavy,  it gets light,  I come up