Hardpan
by Mercy B.
· 31/12/2025
Published 31/12/2025 10:21
The park grass is a whisper now,
yellow, brittle. My steps
crunch like old news.
The ground, a roadmap
of fault lines, spiderweb cracks
where the sprinkler used to spit.
Skeletal branches of some scrub
bush, holding on, just barely.
Dust. I taste it, even now.
Dry. My throat aches with it.
Inside, too. This empty, hard ground.