Drought by Lisa Shulman

Drought

Brown hills hunker down
parched soil hardens,
the land pants
under a merciless sun
vernal pools once loud with frog song, silent.
The weary world waits for rain.

I dream men burn bridges
over dry riverbeds,
crush thin bright bones of trout
beneath their boots.
Then awaken to lush lawns soft as moss
tended by those far from home.

Corn withers on cracked stalks
limp squash leaves wilt,
roots of fruit trees brittle in their search.
Swollen-tongued deer flee flames, singed coyotes
pad down city streets
lost while the earth thirsts.

We see and don’t see
families camped by roaring rivers
of cars, in sagging tents and flapping blue tarps,
we see and turn away
sail past those tattered flags,
our own lucky wallets stuffed like fat fish.

Dressed in ashflakes beneath a burning sun
children stand silent,
their eyes flat dry stones
hard as hearts.
They watch us, waiting
like the land, longing for our tears.

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Lisa Shulman is a writer, children’s book author, and teacher. Her work has appeared in Catamaran, Minnow Literary Magazine, California Quarterly, The Best Small Fictions, and a number of other magazines and anthologies. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and a winner in the Jessamyn West Creative Writing contest, Lisa’s poetry has also been performed by Off the Page Readers Theater. Her chapbook Fragile Bones, Fierce Heart is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Lisa lives in Northern California where she teaches poetry with California Poets in the Schools. lisashulman.com