when a frond friendfalls in the wind
the fern becomes an
urn on the mantle
a time when zephyrs
pepper the thirsty dirt
Satan's own sweat swelters
claiming the heat is ample
cicadas shucked shells
grasp onto slender spent stems
these beacons bellow
in the sun as amber gems
wind ever reaps the seeds
chucking them on dry crust
at most to roast, this
the way the wind condemns
yet dark clouds hark now
of ending pain with rain
gray slithers over the day
in chaotic hypnotic thunder
all is lost to water lust
longing for sips with arid lips
first moments, then minutes
as wet falls in liquid wonder
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