Dry

Dry.

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.

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4 Comments

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4 responses to “Dry

  1. Jen

    A fellow poet! Lovely.

  2. Linda

    Child! I felt so dry once that I chose an account ID that I would remember, from the depth of my soul, it was “unloved”. My daughter read what I had chosen and was seemingly insulted. Like a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder she rumbled “unloved?” My corrected and more accurate ID was “wellloved”. You have three thunderclouds hovering around you every day. You might need an umbrella…

  3. Wow, I love Linda’s response. It gave me goose-bumps. (Or maybe my husband has the AC turned up so high, he’s freezing me out.)

    • whimzie

      You would love the actual Linda. She’s beautiful, and funny, and wise. And I’m glad she’s my friend.

      Put on a sweater, girl!

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