Drought

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The dents in the dull mustard pencil in pale lead erase

The freckles on her very face are sunburned in the summer,

Seared into her skin and arms and against her pale visage,

Permanent reminders of her long waving hair of grain

Blistering dry in the cracks of the ceiling

Of the dry old farmhouse next to the rusting fence,

The chain link dry and crusted red with time's fingertips,

Grabbing into reality and slowing down with the wind

Bringing the searing heat of summer to a stop,

To the hum of the lone mosquito hovering close to the ground,

Weaving through her broken hair, tied around her neck and hanging from a tree.

Dead in the drought of summer.