The wind is cruel
and the heat is cruel
and the drought is pitiless.
It goes on this way.
These are no reasons
to hurt each other.
But we do.
Even the weeds
are blanched and brittle,
the stems dry as pencils,
and it is not yet
the last day of spring.
The fathers go on with their
blaspheming.
The winter was cruel
and the cold was cruel
and the dark was merciless,
it bound us.
Always something
to blame. We could say
the scent of even
a few drops of rain
is generous. We could say
here is my hand.
Dry as pencils! Now there’s a simile for a writer. Sharp as wit, too. It’s really a poem of the season, this surge toward the dry complaints. You catch that well, with a touch of generousity to end.