Drought

The pace of mornings might seem slow,

Or pass quickly,

It does not matter if the river is loud,

Or passing out the soft gestures of frog water

Gone chilled and clear.

.

So that rivers might fill.

.

Right when morning comes to light,

that’s when the sun,

In a desperate attempt to push into the day

Fails, falling back into the clutch of evening,

Or morning,

Depending on the pace of it all.

.

Autumn now turned cold and brief.

.

Call it empty, quiet or lonely,

Dictated, in part, by the light

Pinning afternoon into one single moment

Of a day that cannot linger here.

.

Summer’s sway long gone.

.

Each time, like the call home

From a forgotten lover never met:

This time of shadowed rock,

And snowy alcoves,

We come here again.

.

Waiting for the rain.