stands trite and desolate the thirsty shrub
the earth is wrung of water drop by drop
leaf after leaf the chlorophyll is robbed
i see summer’s burnt hue from root to top.
the soil boasts not of her black tektites now
she’s laden with mosaics of tawny leaves
warm and dead the breezes of april blow
plants and gods scorch, pods writhe and cybele grieves
and grieving will she shed her vernal tears
asperge and impregnate the barren earth
then quenched, this trite desolate shrub will bear
leaves for my art, propitiation at birth.
o come again imbue my desert land
drink of the shrub, ichor of the god’s hand.