Touching the air

How far is it?
How far is the air?
Blades disturbing the dust in a bowl of clouds —
Revolving, muzzles
The sound of pumps
Trying to drag water out of a parched ground,
But the pools are empty,
Quietly through the dirt.
The silver streams are dry, the earth
Is wounded, unending cries for
Rain. If there is no water,
There is no bread.

How far is it?
How far is the rain?
In a minute there is a drop
It is so small
No mud on a boot;
Wind in and wind out —
Like tired lungs.
The blades are dragging themselves
Over the shadows
Over the old bandaged crops.
Old face on a farmer
Stepping from his skin into a grave.

Mourned by religious types —
Untouchable and untouchable,
Come to pray for his soul
Come to pray for the rain;
Now a deluge breathing, its teeth
Digging into the clay
And the rusted blades thirsty, whirling
In the cold wind.
And the black clouds straying down,
Thunder and lightning;
A thick earth of water and the new crops,
Wheat and grain and the milled bread.

Copyright © 10/13/17 lance sheridan®


3 comments on “Touching the air

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