by Mel Kenne
It will get better, we thought.
It did not. More clouds gathered,
but no rain fell. As far as stories
went, none were left to tell.
We can make the best of it,
we thought. Those we saw as wise
were now mute as the wells
gone dry and left deserted, or
else filled with dark, angry eyes.
We hoarded all we’d been taught,
as if one day it would be of use.
But none of us really believed
that we’d ever get such news.
For this was our world now. This
life we’d built, this untimely drought
that refused to be refused.