August 7, 2001
Uncontrolled bouts of drought

The hot August heat of Carolina has licked up any water available. My pines are starting to show their concern. A grape vine which has spent two summers with me is weak. A few leaves have fallen from their own special beat. I watch my forest move, and then I notice time. Her glistening smile each morning I wake… replenishes the child’s empty smile. Upon my arrival within her soul, we share conversation through moments of silence—it is then the forest whispers to me, “Mr. Poet, my children need a drink.”