Parched is the land, the desert high, and cool
Breezes sweep around sage and chaparral where
Storytellers flock weaving ancient patterns
To replace worn-out idols too late enchanting
Reluctant little minds running the planet.

We come.

Late summer in this hemisphere presages
Harvest. Seeds sown centuries since took root
In hard dusty earth, burnt over by revivals, thirsty
For mist, what birds did not carry away for their own

Story grew.

Words proliferate and sometimes overpopulate
This small island. Betimes the scythe is crucial
For making a clearing in the field
Of story. Such nutrients as can live for years
In dry envelopes stuck in the back of drawers
Of seed catalogue companies we drop into
Hard soil, planting themes that yet may salve and save
Our fragile home.

Water them.

August 26, 2007

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