|Apr/May 2013 Poetry|
Artwork by Clinton McKay
Thunderheads peek over the horizon,
but—cruel teases—never drift any closer.
We watch The Weather Channel
as if we might hold the lotto's winning ticket.
A dozen raindrops
would be more welcome
than a tumbling Krugerrand.
The sky is so parched
it steals water from our pond.
What was once shore
is now baked clay shingles
that resemble the pattern on the back
of your grandmother's wrist.
Bluegill and catfish used to enjoy
the greenery where now we stand.
We wonder, How much longer
until there is no pond,
but only an oversized bowl
for the lowing, calf-heavy cow?