Watch the rare clouds,
Odd shapes past thought.
Smell that black scent
Of spilled ink? Try,
Please. The last time
Years were this dry,
This long, the globe
Was still a guess.
Still at your desk
You watch the sky.
Wind, check. Clouds, check.
Pen, page, all set.
Rain? No such thing.
The towns draw down
The false lakes left.
Drowned lines rise wet.
Thursday, March 11, 2021
Dry Spring
