Monday, November 10, 2008

In the Drought

Bleached and weathered
rows of tattered stalks,
Crisp and golden from
endless sun and days.

Crows made lazy circles,
never dropping.
Never raising
against the azure sky.

So much waste
when your father died.
The world went dry
And cruel
Yet beautiful,
like a Burchfield scene.

We drove silent
through dusty fields.
Nothing ever seemed
the same again.