The soil of this place is dry dust over hard clay,
And precious few are the rains that soften it
So that a wayward seed might lodge itself impossibly
Into this ghost of a chance at a home.
No wonder, then, that to start anew
Everything here must either stab or soar.
Perhaps the apple never falls far from the tree,
But such fruits are far too tender for this place--
--there is nothing for these seeds at their roots.
They ride upon beast or breeze in search of kinder soil,
Yet cannot escape their adaptation to the hot, dry dirt
Any more than they may crawl freely from the drought-chasm
Trapping them in the memory of rain.