Drought

If they say Love's a river, then you know you can walk along side. The sun sets early and the bed is bone-dry. It will be cold tonight in the open land, and the rocks and sand may move you to take a stand. There are beautiful seeds that sleep deep in this river's bed. The Sun is kept from them until washing winter's wet.

The river roar is silenced. The banks: mounds of clay, and I walk along the bottom shocked and counting days.

Please remove your shoes and socks and drop the act. Please feel free to saunter and make tracks. Amble amongst the once-wet bed and see, as you come to know me, the sand is becoming damp.

You've traveled with me so short a time. Pan around, you'll see what's breaking through the ground, along the banks, in the Sun our Spring has come.

Green, green, yellow and green. With azure above and brown below. Cool, clean, clear the leaves fill the foreground, there is no more forever acre cemetery of skeletal frames. Greene, yellow and green. Life as won.

A while more you've held me, the water swiftly flowing just above our knees. Moments before you are swept away...

The water's raging, trees rooted in the clay. All started with a stroll along my bone-dry river's bed.






Of these things I play on, none will alight on my horizon.