Circle Two

Dry leaves have accumulated

in our circular driveway,

caught in a pent-up whirlwind

which cannot escape. ‘Round

and around they are pulled

in succession, convoluted

blades scraping asphalt,

one after another

in consecutive milliseconds

outside my window, dead foliage,

once living, now carnage,

leaf berating stone without relief.

 

O hear, it sounds like rain, a haunting

pitter-patter promising insistence,

and there it goes again, but it isn’t.

No water for the thirsty earth.

Parched, we are without abatement.

It is an illusion, a mirage to

desperate dry ears wanting

to make the hurricane of fire

give refreshment

and break.

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