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.