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Drought By Jane Frazier this late summer the days are chalk the rain does not fall the thunder is always from some other city we sit on our porches and watch and think how it must be like streams how cool it is in those places how blue and how fresh their paths will be damp the next day ours dusty if we are sure we have a path at all with everything it seems going to dust the trees the fences the cars all wearing the same blank coats once we were sure we were the chosen we built our churches high and our steeples could be seen for miles crops never failed and the cattle were healthy how is it we could lose the rain how is it the sky could stop running like it did those rivers of prosperity and the baskets always full now we turn to each other empty hands and empty eyes we have no other rivers our hearts it seems have stopped flowing our words are dammed tomorrow's stillborn but the dry land we gaze out upon runs on and on |
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Document last modified on: 02/10/2004