Poetry, Still Life Poetry

Born of Drought and Humdrum Despair

Barren, plodding hours
clip the waxy blossoms
from a spindly
yellow-leaved pomegranate tree.

Only one fruit survives.
It is small
and waterless.

And arsonists

sweat and twitch and ejaculate
as their ill-intentioned campfires
possess the mountains

one thrashing
beetle-eaten tree at a time.

-M.

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