Drought
Kim Triedman
The crows, they
circle, dragging their
wretched shadows, and
light tiptoes
gingerly
as day trips into moon
and fields sprawl
in both directions,
bleached; fallow;
studded with want.
Look here,
I am the thirst;
I am the stubble in the field.
Lull me,
I am wanting.
Sink your fingers deep
and fondle my seed.
Coax me.
Wet me.
Color me wheat.
Return to Archive
|