Pots with no plants.

In the heat, roots, shrunk and stiff, struggle.
Just a sip of wet would do.
"This is not the time for watering."
The pronouncement like a belfry bell:
"Dead!", ten times.

Wells running low, threatening to go dry and sandy.

Sooty with gritty, fine sand mud.

Look. Turn out and dump the pot to see worms in the night cool.
The under-surface dampness is inviting.

Fat on the Stew

Sometimes there I sit, with the past. 
With the beyond and with the present, clear and crisp. 
The past is thick and greasy 
as fat floating on the surface of the stew.
Salty.
The present cool, stolid. 
Parts of the same soup, heating up to one, 
while I sit with both, 
breathing in, 
tasting.

Don't Tell Me

Don't try to tell me it'll all be all right because I slipped on a puddle of butterfly liquid; even though they don't really need our  food due to the fact that there are flowers blooming everywhere but just in case we keep the feeder full; and then fell awkwardly onto all fours and sprained that ligament goes from the foot to the ankle to the hip to shoulder to the wrist and that shoulder is already very sore because I almost dropped Thomas, but used all my strength and pulled my shoulder keeping him safe as he fell. Don't tell me I can't ride because I can't pull myself up, we'll figure a way. But this balancing problem; it's like balancing my life vs sanity. don't tell me I'm not depressed and wobbly and tired. Don't say it because you know it.