Drought

There is no rain. The leaves are brown
and curled, and crisp at their extremities,
the pastures dried and hard. The cows
are eating winter hay. Midsummer’s breeze
stirs up the dust, then sets it down
again, unchanged: a lesson in futility.

What shall we do? We who are here
in this dry place, where furrows etch our skin
and blood we spill is swallowed by the air
look to the west, and to the west again
for signs of storms which don’t appear.
No clouds are gathered on this horizon.

Anxiety and fear well in our throats.
Brittle as grass, the crushing weight
of our insufficiency swamps our hope
and builds our supplication for our fate.
As if our prayers will make rain less remote,
as if we can do anything but wait.



A super-rough draft. Hope all who read this are well.
Peace.