Dry Spell

Moisture is clinging to everything –

on the undersides of flower petals

it glistens like starlight,

on the edges of the awning where it

drops on my head just as I step

out from under,

on the slick black back of my cat

slinking through the bushes hunting


But I am dry, dry, dry

so that even my bones creak & pop,

the blood in my veins slowed to dust,

making me wonder if I’ll ever be

juicy again.

10 thoughts on “Dry Spell

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