Untitled II. 

Fashioning wells
In the arid, dry dirt
Will leave you 
Melancholic, quite.

Think of the thirst;
The clouds above you
Like slumbering sheep,

Waiting for the cracks to show,
Waiting for the earth to turn,

Waiting and waiting still.

For what it’s worth
No toil, nor turn nor labor
Is ever in vain, truly
As we in turn, still,

Oscilating towards the
Earth’s other side, with land
Supple, and soft and fertile.