Metaphor for a flower

It was a hot night in the city,
Steam rising of the asphalt streets.
All alone impatiently waiting her summer storm;
The only flower on the block that has not bloomed.
Her frozen white petals burned with heat to be open,
She was hot on the outside from the weather;
But cold underneath her untapped petals.
As the wind started it to blow,
She moved in anticipation;
It was finally time.
Her stem tingled with excitement,
Her leaves brushed in the humid wind;
Like fairies stuck on strings.
And the sky's eyes widened,
As the sliver lined clouds open up;
To unleash tiny drops of crystal water.
They fell in slow motion,
Like a scene by scene shot;
Every second took an hour.
Her peduncle shook again,
This time with pleasing pleasure;
The first rain dropped had wiggled itself inside.
And there it was- the first time,
Her inner petals felt the water.
She marveled at the feeling- and wanted more.
More tiny drops of rain fell through her petals,
They rested on her pollen;
Then moved softly around
Till she couldn’t hold them any more-
Her petals opened wide,
And out fell all the rain.
A river of crystal streams fell down her slender stem,
She blossomed uncontrollably.
Her body will never be the same,
No longer a closed up bud not ready to bloom.
She was a flower,
The last of the flowers in the hot city night.