The Thirsting Ground

Each morning, the sun rises, glaring,

as the earth beneath my feet hardens,

cracking like old paint on forgotten walls,

a silent cry for rain.

I step outside, and the garden,

once bursting with color, lies limp,

each plant wilting, surrendering

to the relentless sun.

The soil crumbles,

a parched echo of longing,

as if it were pleading for life,

for just a drop, a whisper of hope.

And I wonder,

when did we forget the rhythm,

the dance of rain and sun?

As I stand in this barren land,

I feel a familiar emptiness,

a longing that stretches like the horizon.