Cracked Ground

The small tree,

by the curb,

its leaves curled

like dried parchment.

A tired green,

almost yellow.

And at its base,

the earth,

pulled apart.

A map of fault lines,

fine, intersecting cracks,

like old, bleached paper.

Dust, pale and dry,

filling the gaps.

You can water it,

for hours.

The surface

takes a sheen,

but the thirst

goes deeper.

It doesn't reach.

It just sits there,

on the surface,

a momentary sheen,

before the sun

drinks it back,

and the cracks

just wait.