Brown Grass

The burnt brown grass sits in the sun,
With the rays beating down until its day is done,
Begging to borrow for barely a minute,
A cool drop of water with a little life in it.

Not a breath of a breeze in the hot August air,
To comfort or calm the arid despair.
With a heat so hot it hurts to think,
About anything but drowning in that cool drop drink.

But the day turns to dusk and beyond into dawn,
As the dark night air brings the dew on.
It drinks in the dew and breathes out a sigh,
And sings itself to sleep with a sweet lullaby.

Then the sun starts to rise and the night slips away,
And the burnt brown grass begins a new day.

Written September 25, 1999
copyright 1999 Bradley S. Owens

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