For the record, there is a terrible drought here in the middle of the United States. I did recently run into a woman with whom I had been in love, and I've had trouble writing of late.
A fountain then; the words were spurting.
How I slipped and slid beneath the clouds
Which glowered on her reign, but, now,
Returned, she smiles: sun, and I, more
Burnt than warmed, blink at her, feeling
Only dryness, drought. There is no moisture
In our meeting. Plants are shriveled in the yard,
The fountain's nozzles never spray, and I,
In evening, in her absence, still look at
The empty sky and wish that it would rain.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 21 times
Written on 2012-07-27 at 00:19
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Drought: she was the one I loved,A fountain then; the words were spurting.
How I slipped and slid beneath the clouds
Which glowered on her reign, but, now,
Returned, she smiles: sun, and I, more
Burnt than warmed, blink at her, feeling
Only dryness, drought. There is no moisture
In our meeting. Plants are shriveled in the yard,
The fountain's nozzles never spray, and I,
In evening, in her absence, still look at
The empty sky and wish that it would rain.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 21 times
Written on 2012-07-27 at 00:19
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