Torturing concrete
flames beneath my bare feet
on the short walk
to the mail box.
St. Augustine bows
its brown spears
in prayerful petition
for rain.
Yesterday I trimmed
the roses to spare them
a dusty death,
watered the remaining leaves,
soaked the red bark mulch,
now dry as a liar’s lips.
Roots either sustain us
or do us in, drawing
from hidden waters
beneath what time’s
left behind.
Once we’re planted
we’re at the mercy
of what weather
comes our way.
I must put my faith in will
as I gingerly step
across the burning
concrete coal
laid out before me
like a laughing
gray tongue.
flames beneath my bare feet
on the short walk
to the mail box.
St. Augustine bows
its brown spears
in prayerful petition
for rain.
Yesterday I trimmed
the roses to spare them
a dusty death,
watered the remaining leaves,
soaked the red bark mulch,
now dry as a liar’s lips.
Roots either sustain us
or do us in, drawing
from hidden waters
beneath what time’s
left behind.
Once we’re planted
we’re at the mercy
of what weather
comes our way.
I must put my faith in will
as I gingerly step
across the burning
concrete coal
laid out before me
like a laughing
gray tongue.
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