Dry like the patch of yard where my flowers used to grow.
Dry like the skin on my over-forty-year-old face.
Dry on the inside.
Like Ezekiel’s bones.
Lord, please send rain.
Not just a summer shower with flashy lightning and show-off thunder.
I need an all-night soaker.
Saturate me from my parched lips to the marrow of these dry bones.