dream in deep drought

those are the boundaries we have to pass
so that we reach the land where fruit hang low
where summer's long and all the rivers slow
and little purple flowers dot the grass
you might describe our old desire as crass
and all we want as not quite à propos
you are the one who is supposed to know
when we are dull or if we're clear as glass
on this hard side all the creek beds are dry
and not one blossom has yet shown its face
but we are all convinced there's time to spare
beneath the clear and hard bell of the sky
when each of us can shape a human space
and not sink in to one last dark despair