Thirsting, thirsting. . . shriveled earth
suffocates in summer’s dearth,
yearns for rain clouds’ forthwith bursting:
Shriveled earth. . . thirsting, thirsting.
Browning, browning in their beds,
flowers parched hang low their heads.
Daffodils once bright are frowning
in their beds, browning, browning.
Dying, dying – every field,
withering, to fate must yield.
All the world is sadly crying,
every field – dying, dying.
Whirling, whirling, comes a wind
arid and undisciplined.
Stagnant heat, pent-up – unfurling,
comes a wind, whirling, whirling.
Whipping, whipping through each plain
(while ignored are prayers for rain),
final blows come swiftly ripping
through each plain, whipping, whipping.
Burning, burning. . . August’s lust
leaves us nothing but the dust,
and soon to dust we’ll be returning:
August’s lust – burning. . . . burning.
(Swap Quatrain form, not listed at Soup)
For the the Any Poem :)Poetry Contest of Anne Currin
A.gain Contest sponsored by Chris D. Aechtner