Windfall In Drought
This is a guest post by Taylor Graham. Thank you Taylor.
WINDFALL IN DROUGHT
The year is flinging off its gold
in leaf, in leaf-fall litter. Cold
waits, dragon-old and brazen.
The scab-bark willow’s tarnished brown.
No profit in wind-winnow down,
thistle-gown faded ashen.
Then comes a day of spattered pane,
storm clouds lowering, scent of rain.
Here we remain with our hopes
rooted like the gray trees standing,
sentinels in dark gathering
for guarding of silent slopes.