“This path leads to the sea,” she said.
Here where the hills were barren brown,
here where creation wasn’t right.
We were in drought
and had been for five years
or six, depending
on when you started counting.
She whispered “Don’t go. Not yet.”
I wanted to stay but I knew
rain wouldn’t end this,
I knew the sea wouldn’t help—
it could only lull me to sleep
and leave salt in my mouth.
© 1993, 1994 Wayne Pitcher
