THE GRASS IS DYING

THE GRASS IS DYING

What will be next?

☹☹☹

I sit on my porch in my old beach chair.

There’s nary a sound; not a breath of fresh air.

The sun blazes down to burn up the land.

The grass is dying, the dirt’s turned to sand.

No birds are heard singing; there’s no cloud in the sky.

The flowers have wilted. I watch them slowly die.

We must conserve water, so our lawns turn to straw.

We’re allowed to water, one hour a month – but no more.

The wildling is hiding, but only heaven knows where;

So I sit on my porch, with a saddened blank stare.

A few clouds begin to move overhead.

But, I think it’s too late. Each lawn is now dead.

This is our rainy season, or so we’ve been told.

But no rain? No wind? All sun? nothing to hold.

The fruit on the trees have withered to rot.

Nothing will grow; it’s just too damn hot.

So, I sit here on my porch, praying for rain.

Is that a drop? Please do it again!

Come on clouds; please, oh please astound me.

Dump out your water, on and around me.

Soak all that you see to our very core.

And when you think you’re done, please do it some more.