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0 Comments | Nov 28, 2012


He stands
amid the brown
withered corn,
used up and dusty,
bereft of hope,
gazing up
with cracked shading
hand to brow
at the lone taunting
gray cloud
as it floats,
hovers, dances,
out there
to the west,
nothing, but
ecstatic with possibility.

The slate waving
curtain of rain
that hangs beneath,
so faint,
so far,
is enough
to keep him
standing there,
lest he miss it.

It’s not about
the corn anymore.
That’s history.
He just wants to
feel the rain.
Too taste it
on his tongue.
To remember
what it’s like
to have a chance.

Yeah, it’s
worth the wait,
even if it’s just a tear
or two,
before the cloud slides
off to some
other parched
and wishful place.

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