The Drought
Tall grows the summer burnt rows of needful corn,
Parched earth begs its mercy toward hazy heavens,
Farmers wander fields’ once lush and vibrant gems,
Needed moisture abandons the farm with scorn.
Kneeled in prayer weathered face pleads case,
Other crops welcome the regular calls for rain,
The dry summer breeze crosses dying plain,
Hopeful eyes search longingly for hidden ace.
Days plod slowly toward summers’ needed end,
Parched lips mutter the routine cry for wetness,
On the horizon lost clouds begins to darkly rend,
Slow drizzle starts its downward trail to bless.
Robert Dodson
July 16, 2009
2 comments:
Your words bring a very clear image to mind - including the dusty taste on the wind.
Good news & bad news. Good news - no grasshopper plagues. Bad news - the metaphysical sites say places that used to grow crops - won't and places that couldn't will.
Change crops to things that don't need lots of water - change to water retention planting. My friends here don't plow fields anymore - they drop seed into individual holes.
Walking the fields - burning and cutting weeds on an as-needed basis. Farming is very different.
sigh.
Gayle
Thanks for the kind words and your insight. It must be 40 years ago that sparked today's poem. I should do a bit of research. Time has changed things.
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