Buttercups and Dust
Nothing much has grown since the drought moved in;
a garden wasteland parched by relentless sun;
dismayed and discouraged I blink through beads of sweat,
perspiration merged with stinging tears when day is almost done.
Wisps of orange smoke and a haze that dries the soul,
dehydrated feelings lead to one too many drinks;
each breath a melancholic sigh; the fiery sun descending
over hills and out at sea it seems to sizzle as it sinks.
What will become of me now that I am made an island
and desperation frays the nerves so callous and unjust?
The barren lawn which stretches from the stoop into the future
throws nothing up for miles and miles save buttercups and dust.
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