When Water Stops

The grass has surrendered,

yellowing under a sun too fierce,

a parched whisper of what was green,

as I water the garden,

watching droplets bead like hope,

falling on dry, cracked earth,

a faint sigh of relief,

that evaporates too soon,

clinging to the air like a promise

we can’t keep.

An email comes, a call to gather,

to discuss the water we ration,

urgency sharp in our throats—

not just here, but everywhere,

like time slipping through fingers,

this aching weight of loss,

where the land sighs,

as it shrinks, shrivels, and breaks,

the landscape unyielding,

a muted cry for help.