Blades
Hard-wired to grow
wild, grass turns brown.
Chopped low under
skies emptied by
drought, a long
dry stare from sun's
rays pummels death.
All we ever desired,
someplace green
to lie under a blue
and stare into eternity,
we wait for the sun
to sink, then grow
wild under
a star-filled sky.
Richard Dinges
If
you have any comments on this poem, Richard Dinges would be
pleased to hear from you.
