7
A drought is on it’s way
each and every seventh day.
The dirt from the road is riled
by the afternoon breeze, and
I know you’re not far off.
The drought drifts in and wraps it’s
arms around everything within reach; burning
through roots as if soil was transparent.
I pray for water, a necessary commodity
from here to the Sahara-where the
sky is a maternal blue, knowingly scorched
by the sinking sun.
A drought is on it’s way
each and every seventh day.
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