The Drought
The rain came plunging drenching after drought
and silence burst as sensual groaning frogs
released at once from dry encysted sleeps
began the rhythms sounded so beneath
the world's first trees. Bromeliads and palms
embraced their roots in waters filled with songs -
but long ago. Tonight in twilight I
am standing at the edge of time and pond,
peering like a primate at the sounds
that pulse and surge from shadowed reeds and roots.
Somehow the blood and feet take up the beat.
But on the edge of plunging I retreat
withdrawing from the memories of bones
to faintly hear, within our walls, their songs. - by Dawn L. C. Miller
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