Searching for some "up" thoughts during the drought.
I think that I shall never see
A plant as dusty as my tree.
Its leaves have gone from green to brown;
And though they haven't fallen down
They don't respond to all the water
I apply, although they oughter.
I raised it from a tiny sapling
Now its leaves look old, with dappling.
Still I hope for showers of rain;
A downpour now would ease its pain.
The dry times always take their toll
I guess, and leave us looking old;
But if we manage to survive
For long enough, the rains arrive,
The seasons turn, and life renews
Itself. Can old dry leaves refuse
To fall? Can brittle limbs still cling
To hopes of a freely-flowing stream?
Such questions fill my thoughts in times
Of drought like this, and often primes
Me for the question brought by flood—
Is dust a coating worse than mud?
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