like dying thunder left to echo all alone,
bereft of flash or rain or aught
but air and dreams and river foam.
Below, the greasy green of dust-strained water creeps along
and whispers back of sea-hopes and bleached skeletons
and memories long gone.
This is the way,
do you understand? When life retreats and beaches you,
like some drownding fish gasping on the shore,
each second precious even as it's lost,
each wave a lingering hope of water once again;
do not despair when you are suddenly bereft
of friend or family or cause. Smell the roses:
though they have thorns, they are, at last check, real,
and, when watered, grow.