by October 16, 2022 0 comments

No drop of moisture,
not even a tear,
only the dry underbelly
of grief left from
witnessing a beloved,
ravaged with age,
fade and pass,
and feeling nothing
but wonderment and relief.

Desolate and worn
is the heart broken,
no hope of storm clouds
to wash the wound
or wet the earth
in hopes of flooding
the dusty dunes,
which roll like dry waves
against the scorched horizon.

These are the endless
days of drought.
The lump in the throat,
a whimper in the dark,
ominous clouds but no rain,
as dry as the desert
or as brittle as the petal
fallen from the bloom
on a forgotten grave.

editors note:

Wishing need of umbrellas for all. – mh clay

Leave a Reply