And on those days,
when all seems flat and bleak,
too dry to breathe,
too hot to move
and I sag under the weight
of my own internal sky,
am I not like you?

Do I not long
for love to fall into place,
for some discriminating cloud
to drift down round my shoulders
enfolding with its whisper of cool and damp,
its promise of rain to come,
of water -- somewhere --
in this parched desert of a life?

Words and Image by Diane Walker

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