Drought

In Santa Maria,
there is a drought unspoken.
You will only feel it
on your skin, in your throat,
but you could never say it.
It will drip down your cheek
drop on parched soil
but there is no spring
to quench it.

Because they are thirsty
my beloved they have left.
Flew each one to other lands.
Each one in search of a savior.

But wherever they may perch
wherever they bivouac
they could never deny
they will always bring with them
this thirst
that cursed their homeland
and continues
to dry out love,
laughter, and most of all
meaning.

They always desire to return.
They yearn to be touched again
by the blowing breeze of the fields
by the frosting waves along the beach
by the grip of a beloved
hoping
that their return will water them
but
they have forgotten

a well left
always runs dry.