Monday, February 29, 2016

Grey Hills, Georgia O'Keeffe, 1941

(link to picture)

The sand below speaks of peace
laid nearly flat between digging
fingers of wrinkled rock,
It's so dry in this erosion
that the cicadas wheeze
like a miracle.

It's so still, so melted
from the monochrome sky
to the dead stream bed.
Rock runs off.
All this earth migrates
from heaven down.

The hilltops darken
from an arid cloud
and open a mouth
begging for some kind of rain,
pleading from their ages
of survival.

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