Adrift on Winter
Spring is beyond the reach of my voice.
Beg as I might,
I might as well beg for light
in the vacuum of night.
There’s a squelch
in everyone’s voice, a ribbonous whine,
’Enough is enough for liquidous sake!’
but the rain still pours,
and the rivers still rise, filling
the last of the dry with its wet,
and my feet ask if they will ever
feel the dryness of land again.
Margo’s Tuesday Tryouts: A Sense of Land