I see the husk before me,
waiting for
the healing storms of
October.
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
our
quick
flashes
of anger,
just as Gaea has forgotten her
dulled
impatience
for rain.
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
taste
on our tongues,
feel
on our skin.
This is the husk before
drenching storms of October.
Before the time we finally
will
sigh
doused by the healing
coolness
of rain.
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.