No Forecast of Rain

In this dry season
the occasional moth-like rain
means nothing –
it whets our appetites
for careless, clumsy hope.
 
Life can only be so much
within this cloudy dream.
I look back as on a decade;
if it’s just life’s final daydream
then my memory has failed.
 
Now that I’m to tell you things
I can only wet the topsoil,
not enough for roots to drink.
I’m sure the leaves will shrivel
and this drought will only last.
 
The sky is thick with water
but without a promise it’ll keep.
I’m searching for a voice to take
among the standing pools of scum.
The mosquitoes speak more sense than me.
 
There’s nothing here,
the glass is halfway empty,
and all that’s left is an old meniscus
clinging to the bottom of the cup.
 
Oh I wish that you would drink it
and turn the tap for more.
But the mindless water doesn’t know –
you’re a prickly-pear.