The Primary Drought

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The water lilies

can’t explain

why they lie in a crispy heap

on a bed of crackled red clay,

or where the frogs

have gone.

It’s early in the season.

But, when the rain stops

a silence sets in.

Those who have not

yet given up their bodies,

pray that Death is so otherwise

occupied that he doesn’t notice

they still swill the firebrand air.

I walk through tinder fields

of tall chicory,

blue flowers closed off

to a nauseous sun.

Interesting isn’t it,

how so many people

stop to talk about

the drought?

“Tragic,” they say.

And I wonder about hearts folded

up tight against the light

and what it would take to saturate

the human spirit with a love

for this world.

Could our full presence

float flowers?

I’m open to the possibility.

Fear is a stingy master though,

and we in-habit the primary drought,

I think.

The torment of this craving landscape

is a merciless repercussion.

“Tragic,” I say.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life"

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