the empty field
soil tilled
atlas hoisting it on his shoulder
the seeds and rain load the furrows
with the heaviness of dreams
it is the third year
already his skin is cracked from exposure
it isnít easy playing god
the sun high
he walks, tending as he would to his mother
spoon-feeding with tender insistence
water brought to creviced lips
the land now is heavy with dust
the solstice does not last
for the sun cannot help but go down
and in the earth he grasps
there is not enough to hold the world