The
corn died first, then
the
soybeans, thirsting for the rain
that
didn’t come. Farmers watched
the
early morning, noon, 5, 6 and 10
o’clock
news knowing that nothing
was
changing except hope.
And
occupying my postage stamp
of
a yard I scurried from grass
to
gardens to trees to grass and
back
again, a perpetual etcetera
of
water and hoses, sprinklers
and
soakers, and constant motion
of
water and hope.
The
red buds died in the boulevards
this
summer, and the Civil War tree
in
the park, three of my rosebushes
but
only one limb of the crabapple.
Hope
endures.
This
poem is submitted to the dVersePoets prompt of the dog days of summer. To see other poems, please visit the site.
