Inspiring dust clouds,
coughing out of a dry throat,
this is the cycle of the dreary days.
No rain falls
from a sky without promise
to a world parched and dying.
I have packed away my hope
in boxes,
stowed until a better time:
when winter's fingers rise
from the bone chill clay
and fair spring renews the song.
Perhaps then I shall be more brave;
perhaps then your laughter
will light the fireflies again.
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