Drought on the Pacific

For this to be fair,

Before scorned, hide, and erred, before one’s costs.

The scent of pine binds like an ancient swell.

A chorus of leaves gently sway,

Humbly salvaging droughts comin’.

The towering redwoods reach high,

Guardians of the forest, vast and wide,

Their branches; outstretched, brittle to thorns.

That makes antiquity,

Revealing secrets living inherent there.

The streams and rivers, once mighty and strong,

Now trickle lazily, their flow not as long.

Orders to remember those flourished,

Never thy praise those thine destroys.

The ground beneath, a blanket of shriveled dire moss,

A blanket flammable as we march in amass.

As thieves forage for hidden life,

Love uncovers from every arid cut.

Cut from my thought, of ages yet created.

Take all things of spirit? When and there with?

Evermore unrest; and kept seat forbear,

Even in bounty doth use flacking murmurs.

A flit of inconsistency.

Their rhythm echoed a cry of disgrace.

Trees stand tall, their branches reaching high,

As heat weaves its way amongst the forest’s eaves.