Dying grasses
Cracked, baked lawns
Withered flora
Drought’s next dawn
Oh, how thirsty the land
How heat weary the hills
A tender box waiting
To become an inferno’s hell
If but a drop would fall
And then another might follow
And still another and another
For the dead earth to finally swallow
What a metaphor
For the peoples’ hearts
Dry and withered by selfishness
By greed, by hurt and by callousness
By hate, bigotry and ignorance
If but a drop of love might fall
Upon those parched dead, empty souls
Perhaps the buried seeds of care might grow
And end the drought of love so it might flow
“A Metaphor” was printed in Tracks, No. 9 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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