Wait (in the style of Wordsworth)

The world’s become a busy place
Where tranquil Time exists no more,
A race with ever faster pace
With no reward worth running for.
But even as Life goes and goes
There’s still a moment when its going slows:
 
The World in wait before a storm—
Preparing, as it holds its breath,
A light show that the skies perform
That’s followed close by rumbling death,
As all the leaves begin to sway;
They thirst for rain in which to play.
 
Then come the drops, a few at first,
And soon arrives that rainy scent.
The world goes still, the clouds—they burst.
At last, the leaves can dance, content.
The rain comes with a glossy sheen
That turns the leaves the greenest green.
 
So when I find Life runs to fast
I just recall that cool suspense,
That breaking of the storm at last,
In hopes of helping life make sense.
And then my mind is cleared of pain
And joins the leaves who love the rain.