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Posts Tagged ‘drought’

Amen

Oh green, I miss you,

miss how you used

to flourish in me,

no matter how brittle,

how brown I’d become.

I didn’t know then

I took you for granted.

I miss your softness,

your tenderness,

all the promise inside you,

the sunlight you carry

in your veins.

Some days I remember

what it is to be green.

Some days, when it’s gray,

I tell myself green is possible again.

Some days, when the rain

still doesn’t fall,

I practice how to break.

Some days, I swear I’ll find a way

to become green again,

no matter how unlikely,

how parched this field.

Somedays, though I long since

forgot how to pray,

the prayers find me anyway

and my empty hands

will not come down.

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Thirsty

 

 

 

At last, the rain,

a furious rain,

that turned into

tiny fists of hail,

shredding leaves

and pummeling

everything it met,

 

it rained as if

one day, charged

with intensity,

might change

a hundred days

of drought—

 

and, oh, the world after,

bruised and shining, still thirsty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One Bidding

 

 

 

waking to rain 

what is driest in me 

reshapes itself  

into a beggar’s bowl 

puts itself in my hands 

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One Drought

 

 

just doing my homework

said the rain cloud

the mesa still dust dry

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After the Drought

 

 

even my worry

decides to kick off its shoes

and play in the rain—

forgetting for a moment

its soggy gray socks

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in the relentless drought,

finding inside me

a pond somehow still present,

an unstoppable,

insistent spring

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In the red mud, in the muck,

in the day’s surplus of luck,

the sudden rains make flood of wish

and fill the road with detritus

and we are stranded where we are

the roads all closed, and still, I hear

inside, some voice, insistent,

chanting More, more.

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Praise the summer, with its

endless drought. How you’d rather

revile it, change it, pray

for the world to be another way.

Praise the sky, relentlessly clear,

and the dry field that crunches

beneath your feet.

You dream of green, dream

of laughing in the rain, dream

of puddles and the thin river

rising. But praise the scarcity,

how it teaches you what

you would rather not know—

how fragile the balance,

how every drop matters,

how lucky it is

to grow.

 

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On the divide

the corn lilies

yellow as if

it were autumn,

their leaves

brittling too soon,

like lovers

surprised during

the honeymoon

to find there is

just not enough

to keep things

alive. Such a short

time ago

they believed

just a smile

could open

the whole sky.

How I long

to be wrong

about them.

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Dry December

 

 

 

Winter, this year,

like the dream

in which I must

call someone

but I cannot

remember who

it is, only

how important

that I call.

 

When I wake,

I walk to the phone,

but waking

brings me no

closer to remembering.

 

Off the porch,

the pansies

wear plum

and gold—

there is summer

in their softness.

 

I stare at them.

Who is it

I am supposed

to call? And

what has happened

to winter?

 

The sky

turns a bluer

shade of blue.

The pansies

nod. Whatever

they know,

they’re not telling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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