In the garden, ‘neath the azure sky,
A lament whispers, the earth is dry.
No raindrops fall, the thirst unmet,
Yet here I sit, my heart’s vignette.
The soil, a canvas, cracks unfold,
A story of longing, of tales untold.
The sun, a relentless, fiery glare,
Yet in its warmth, I find a chair.
No pitter-patter, no rhythmic song,
The absence of rain, a lament long.
But in the garden, a refuge found,
I dine al fresco on arid ground.
The flowers droop, the grass blades sigh,
A symphony of thirst, as clouds pass by.
Yet, on my lips, a grateful smile,
As sunshine graces my noon repile.
Oh, rain, where art thou in this plea?
Yet, the garden’s grace is company.
Lunchtime melodies, a bittersweet tune,
In the garden, ‘neath the sunlit dune.
So, I lament the rainless days,
Yet, in the garden, my spirit sways.
A paradox, this weathered dance,
In dry despair, a sunlit trance.
The Poems I Never Wrote 