TFR Home Page TFR Home PageContents ContentsPrev. Page Prev. PageNext Page Next PageComments Comments

Drought
By Jane Frazier

this late summer the days are chalk
the rain does not fall the thunder
is always from some other city we sit
on our porches and watch and think
how it must be like streams how cool it is
in those places how blue and how
fresh their paths will be damp
the next day ours dusty if
we are sure we have a path at all
with everything it seems going to
dust the trees the fences the cars
all wearing the same blank coats

once we were sure we were the chosen
we built our churches high and our
steeples could be seen for miles
crops never failed and the cattle were
healthy how is it we could lose
the rain how is it the sky
could stop running like it did those
rivers of prosperity and the baskets
always full now we turn to each other
empty hands and empty eyes we have
no other rivers our hearts it seems
have stopped flowing our words are
dammed tomorrow's stillborn but the
dry land we gaze out upon
runs on and on




TFR Home Page | Submission Guidelines | Frequently Asked Questions | Sign Our Guest Book | Contents | Donations
Workshops | Event Calendar | TFR Background | How to Contact Us | Editors and Authors Only | Privacy Statement


© Copyright 1997, 2020, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 02/10/2004

<script>
(function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){
(i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),
m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m)
})(window,document,'script','https://www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga');

ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');
ga('send', 'pageview');

</script>