Drought
J
Juan Olivarez
0
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Dust blows in the hot dry wind,
The grasses are all turning brown.
But not one drop, does the good lord send,
To the parched and baking ground.
There's not a cloud, in the steel blue sky,
The trees all show the strain.
All is yellow withered and dry,
Even the black birds pray for rain.
The ground is cracked, and dry as bone,
A little moisture is a must.
Even the rocks cry tears of stone,
Everything else, has turned to dust.
6/3/11 Alton Texas
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