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| DROUGHT
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Hard-baked topsoil.
Concretized. Can't even scoop
a pailful
for some potted plants
without getting out a jackhammer.
The relentless eyeball of the sun
tries to burn us like paper
with its magnifying glass.
Viburnums, planted just this year,
are going
going gone,
the leaves as crisp
as a crackling fire.
The lawn is a cartoon man
crawling out from the desert,
parched, begging the sun
for a cup of water,
My Kingdom for a...
Too late. Bony weeds
have taken over
and cover this graveyard of grass.
The needles I'm pulling
from my bare feet are from the spruce
that's turned dry
and red-eyed,
shedding this old life
for a new kind of death.
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from The Wind is a Tall Man Striding
watershedBooks
2000
Copyright © Jim Slominski
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