What once flowed as bacchanal wine

soaking into soil where seeds waited to sprout

has spread to the edge of desert and evaporated

Seedlings wither and long for the rains to return

watching as a slow moving sky is painted red

against a horizon the seems always heavy

with the promise of a storm that never comes

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In other news, the plant my sister gave me last Christmas is thriving.

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Photo by Jonathan Borba from Pexels