The Drought

The Drought

September sky sleeps on the prairie
In the failing summer, the old faults.
Wilt in the change, with the farm.
Beside the Little crystal river,
Feeling the weight of the loss,
Crying and mourning to express death.

She regrets that the untimely death
And the turmoil that arose on the prairie      
Were both felt by the loss,
But only concerned to a fault.
The iron will staring at the river.
She tosses a rock and looks to the farm,

It's day by day now; but the farm
Is offering the food of small hard death
Limping like mad on the hot black river,
The sun and the man must fade on the prairie.
Rising up, the old fault
Withdrawing the clever loss

On its brow spectral, the loss
Half open above the farm,
Overgrown above the old fault
And her eyes full of dark brown death.
She laughs and cries, she loves the prairie
Is chilly, throws more rocks in the river.

It pays to pray, says the wise river.
I know what I know, surviving the loss.
With seed the wind sprays a parched prairie
And a thirsty plain. Then the farm
Inhales dust with a gasp like death
And smiles proudly to the fault.

But secretly, while the fault
Opens herself about the river,
The little rancho slumps down like death
From between the edges of the loss
Into the flower bed which the farm
Has carefully sown in the soil of the prairie.

Time to cut our loss, decries sad death.
The fault rumbles beneath the marvelous river
The decaying farm mulches the dry prairie.