Drought
It’s all boiled up and caked up
Lands weep and rivers cry out loud,
Puking withered currents that rather hide
Than run
Cornstalks, excoriated and wounded,
Are scolded by thunder at night,
And lightning brandishes the whiplash of its
Whitish tongue, chiding the frightened rocks nearby.
It has not rained in seasons.
It has not dropped.
Not one drop.
But standards keep falling —
And dropping.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
