Between the Waters

Pib's Gone Home

By: EarlB, 10:02 AM GMT on July 20, 2010



I can hear her skates on the road,
She's on her way to the dance.
Miles don't matter, no, miles don't matter,
She's on her way to the dance.

She'll dance all night she says,
The music will never stop,
She'll dance 'til dawn, 'til dawn,
"Just one more dance", says Pib.

I can hear Pib's skates on the road,
And, the all-night music
Has just begun.


There's no need to ever say goodbye so long
as memories serve us. I'm thinking of you, Pib.

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Dusty Brown Lie

By: EarlB, 11:17 PM GMT on July 05, 2010

The last month that we had normal rain was March, when we
were complaining about "too much". Now "please rain" can
be heard everywhere.

Shovels make a harsh "scrff" sound as they tear through
dusty loam, loam remembered for it's rich vegetative aroma
when wet. Plants and animals have been merely surviving for
the past three months on a fourth of the usual three plus
inches of rain per month.

I stare into empty eyes
As life withers away.
The green of life
Slowly slips to brown.

"Scrff", as I dig looking for damp, a foot-and-a half
below the duff, and it is still ash dry. The clay line
is nearly impenetrable when dry like this. "Scrff"

Planter's dreams
Dry in the wind,
And, in a few days,
They will blow away.

I've dug into a desert sarcophagus, in looking for water, in looking
for life, finding neither. It's a drought, of water, of life.
Goodbyes are all that are left, as "potential" fades like any hope
for rain this summer.

Summer,
The time of green,
Lied
A dusty brown lie.

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