There is no defense for a man who, in the excess of his wealth,
has kicked the great altar of Justice out of sight. —Aeschylus
Drought
the grasses say to the sky,
We thirst
The sky is blue and silent,
clouds tease. They slide
silently under a brilliant sun
hoarding their wealth
they are the Himalayas of heaven
cold and distant,
imperious,
proud of their majesty,
their volume,
joining and unjoining their vapors
among their kind alone
holding it to themselves
they are vacant
as an empty page
void
while the grasses
need psalms of moisture
they billow above dry prairies
counting their vaulted droplets
saving whole seas for their own
rainy day
by Jim Culleny
7/29/12