SALVE A CHILD
Saplings, by dearth must not droop.
A trickle from your coffer, from drought’s
Wreckage many could save.
For in your senile era, the arbor from their
Boughs from the scorching sun you can not evade.
The soil of nadir
To a tilted soil these seedlings
I implore you to pick, that green
Finery by the fingers of drought torn,
By your drizzle could be stitched,
And this perennial nudity by the hand of
Drought wrought to mirth would falter.
The ravenous vale
These seedlings for ravish from
Your coffer with gnarled hands beg.
Begrudge not your care, for from drought’s
Blade they must be saved and from dearth’
Talons must be salved
For in these withering hands a glaring tomorrow
These wilting seedlings, a trickle from your
Coffer, from the scavenger’s baleful eyes
Could eclipse and to the sonorous rhythm
Of the wind in chortle would dance.