Stunted Root

A season without rain, he saw the stalks
wilt down and saw corn tassels scalded white,
and in himself he knew a kind of drought
that wilted him on many a sleepless night.

He leaned against the gate and shut his eyes,
not much crop here to see—he could not blame
her for desires he did not satisfy
that seemed too strange for him to speak the name.

He dreamed of clouds, he thirsted for a storm
to blind the sun, to shade his withering love,
but no break in the sultry weather came,
and heat waves rose as from a red hot stove.

Even if rain came now he could not hope
for much new growth of heart or stunted root,
scorched earth had burned his seed, the woman too
had sowed the land he plowed with dead sea fruit.