In the summer of love’s demise
the winds die as well
a slow death marked by silence
of the bamboo wind chime
Pond waters are deathly still
only the slightest ripple
from dirt crumbling off rock
into water
The land, dusty, cracked
tears open holes of
parched grit and soil
thirsty for a single raindrop
Hot pores sweat,
moist, dewy
crying out
salty tears of pain and sadness
Hearts, broken, splintered
await painfully like centuries-old sequoias
for lightning to strike them down
in one fiery sweep
