The earth cracks open,
a breath held too long.
Dust rises in silence,
settling on the bones of roots
that no longer stretch to drink.

The sky, once a weight of blue
wears thin,
The sun carving its name
into the skin of the rock.

We wait for the rain
as we wait for lost things–
for a door long closed to open,
for the shadow of a bird to return.

The trees stand like forgotten statues,
their leaves brittle with the memory
There is no river to speak of
when the wells whisper,
empty.

Published in UVU Touchstone Journal, Spring 2025