This failed summer, dry-eyed, taunts the thirsting ground with clouds shadowed in lavender. The Earth cries out with parched lips. Its voice is dust whirled on wind. It claws at clouds that do not tear to spill their moisture onto dry bones.
Dig deep. Somewhere at the roots of mountains is worm-riddled loam where our ancestors sleep. Here water gushes through underground cavities, gathers in cisterns deep in secret places hidden from the sun.
Tendrils of water form veins and capillaries knitting raw Earth to the flesh of all living things.
We awake, laced in light, return to sleep dreaming of tides pulled by a moon in endless agitation. The ebb and flow of invisible waves churns dark energy. It rushes in a tsunami, surfeiting our universe—this torrent where matter and anti-matter meet to lock in a lover’s embrace. The saline sea becomes sweet. Thirst is quenched. The undead dream as rivers run swift as shadow, melding light to sound.
Published in Stories