Credit image to: Angie Cramer

Where are my questions
in this dry season?
I should summon
righteous anger,
scathing social commentary,
but my mind is covered
by a coating of fine ash.
Sunburned thoughts,
scorched soles of feet
that have walked sere earth
as dead things crunch.
I can’t even summon sorrow
Do dead leaves weep in winter?
Oh let this season pass
Where is my rain?
Lethargy takes my hand
and lays me down,
whispering
“it will pass…”