When it rains, all the trees are leafless
women dead or dying, chests bared
to low gray skies, canyons running full
between limbs and hardened breasts, crying
helplessly with hope, with a taste for life.
And we join them, eyes cast upwards
to bare our thirsty flesh to gods returned
from far diversions, drink until the dust
runs off to settle with the mud.
We will sigh, rest easy for a moment—
count ourselves among the blessed
survivors, plod along with the better-natured.
drycrikjournal 
Hopeless, yet we hope . . . Thirsty, we keep pebbles on our tongues against the drought even when it rains . . . Weary to the bone, we stay up to watch the sunrise . . . Go tell . . .
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