I grow old with this forgetfulness,
waiting for the goddess
to refresh dry dirt with her caress,
her long moist kiss
to bring this flesh
to flush with green.
On bare ground, lost tools expose
our short history since the gossip rocks—
pestles resting for basic work
like unemployed epiphanies
to grind into a living poem
left in a trail of our dust.
I grow old with faith and hope
grown to my shoulder, whispering
their monotonous sweet nothings
that don’t arouse me—that don’t
fill the bellies of cows
with hay or babies.
I grow old with poems
chiseled in clouds of dust—
first lines everywhere I look.
drycrikjournal 
I pray the rain comes soft and gentle in needed amounts. Slowly so as to not lower the mountains to much, in a hurry to form a plain. Let the moisture penetrate to the roots, only bringing a measured amount of sediment to the creeks and lakes. Distribution is good when properly applied and still be called nutrients. Enough water for renewal, composing the leaves and debris left behind.
With the wild things coming into the city to make a living and becoming as polluted as the creatures in the oceans. Thousands of tons of nuclear waist dumped in the oceans of the world by our own military and others just 30 miles off San Francisco along all the coast of the world. Continent size whorl pools of plastic and rubble, oil spills and chemicals and radiation in the air, water and land. No country nor man is immune. I pray for our children that man hasn’t destroyed to the point of no return.
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None of us will ever be the same.
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