The Lord Taketh Away
The sun a feral dog grown tired of the fight turns tail and runs as we survey the sere fields at dusk. I stand by your side, see sweat droplets clean as tears adorning the hollows below your eyes. With blistered fingers you swab your brow. I know your skin tastes of iron and salt. My tongue is useless, flesh held between teeth. I do not tell you I have ceased praying. God himself placed a heavy palm upon our land. Forty days with no rain-- that palm is now a fist. M. Stone M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry and fiction while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.
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April 2021
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