The Drought

I dreamt of a burning forest.
A single spark ignited the terror.
Roaring flames consumed everything.

The hardiest trees have become brittle and dry.
The fields are brown and barren.
The wells bring forth only a trickle.

The burning sun is high above me.
Each night it sets in a cloudless sky.
My wish on the first star never changes.

Finally, there will be a storm at dusk.
As clouds fill the sky, my mood will lift.
Dare I look forward to the sunrise again?

Only then will my dreams become peaceful.
I don’t know when it will happen.
Nature is silent and gives me no clues.

William Wayne Smith


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