There is a stillness
to heat, as if all
life is holding its breath
pulling moisture from
every pore, baking
life  even from rocks.

We watch for the rains
each cloud a broken promise
life slowing
to less than a crawl
waiting, hoping
watching mirages
of rain in the distance,
rain that never arrives.

Maybe tomorrow, we whisper
maybe tomorrow…

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Mirages

  1. But eventually, rain does come! And till it does we learn to dig wells, seed clouds, bottle spring water…many things we learn and do! Both for a literal drought and a symbolic drought, a drought in our creativity.


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