Drought Garden
All around is drought
and baking brown earth
and the skeletons of
long dead leaves and
dry dun ribbons that
used to be worms
in better days.
The ants have fled.
The pond that
last year rippled
with ducks and ibises
and traveling herons
is now a cemetery
for weeds.
The sun burns
the edges of
everything
deeper each day.
I carry water
in buckets and a hose
to this small bed of
green lushness,
this frog sanctuary,
this worm heaven,
this new leafed garden
that squirms with
delight and life,
that I watch over
like a minor god.
© Zen Oleary
May 27, 2004
