I see the husk before me,
the healing storms of
Parched grass tramped,
dark crackling gold in the wind,
praying for the rain.
All is bone dead in September.
No prophesy to tell us when the rains will come.
The thirst in the ground grows and grows.
Extremity in nature,
the earth so wanting,
we, too, so wanting,
our tempers are short, our manners are forgotten.
We, who've stopped wondering how to regret
just as Gaea has forgotten her
15 days and counting,
15 nights a trail of eighty plus degrees and
sweat stained beds.
We scoop our breath out like poached yolks,
We test the theory of
eggs sering on sidewalks.
We scan the horizon
for a change that we long to
on our tongues,
on our skin.
This is the husk before
drenching storms of October.
Before the time we finally
doused by the healing
February 13 2012...All Rights Are Reserved By The Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World
this is about a time in childhood when there was a drought in the Midwest.
seems like old times again. global warming is the rule, in my opinion,
no longer just the exception.