A free-verse poem about summer's drought.

Day follows monotonous day
of triple-digit heat,
dry heat; no rain falls.
The flowers parch and wilt,
then shrivel and die.
The green grass grows
brown and crunches underfoot.
Still no rain will fall.

The midday sun burns hot,
hotter still as the afternoon
wears on. Waves of heat
rise from the pavement.
The birds abandon the feeders
in the middle of the yard
to hunker down in the shade
with wings raised, beaks open.
Even mad dogs and Englishmen
seek to rest in the shade at midday.
Bodies sweat profusely,
to proper ladies’ dismay.
Still no rain will fall.

The ground dries out inches down,
then splits open in long fissures.
Lakes, ponds, and rivers become
shadows of their former selves.
Docks sit exposed, high and dry,
now yards from lakes’ watery edge.
Boats are beached, incapacitated.
Fish gasp for oxygen at the surface
of shallow, isolated pools of water.
Towns restrict water usage,
limiting the watering of lawns,
the washings of dirty cars,
and taking long showers.
Still no rain will fall.

The oppressive heat is relentless,
day after day all the same.
Tempers flare as air conditioners
drone on but cannot keep up.
Electricity usage hits all-time peaks,
threatening brown-outs or failure.
The whole region suffers
as record high temperatures
and lack of rain threaten to turn
the lush and green environment
into drab, brown desert.
Church-folks’ prayers for rain
remain unanswered
as still no rain will fall.
Will this drought never end?