Cracked Ground

A wilted flower leans slow

like it’s counting down the end.

The cracked earth coughs dust

into dry, brittle air.

My fingers drag the hose

across the stubborn dirt —

a dry tongue, nothing left

but flaking skin and memories.

The sun robs the last wet spots,

leaving only dust particles

dancing in the heat haze,

a slow unraveling of green to gray.

Everything dries without warning.

A single wilted flower

is all the world remembers

when the water stops.