Poetry - Water Supply
 

Dust. Sand. Dust.

This is all she sees as she crosses across the sand.
The sand beneath her feet.
The dust on her toes.
The ring in her nose.

She walks this way every day.
But the path does not stand. She leaves no
footprints in the sand. It's all
blown away.

Dust. Sand. Dust.

Little ones wait, like baby birds,
mouths up, tweet-tweet, waiting to feed.
But it is hard.
She is too old,
for this.

The water supply is far. Far. Distant.
In younger years, she'd fight the tears,
and reach it.

For tears are all she has now.
They hit the ground.
Dollop. One.
Dollop. Two.
Cut crevices in her face.

Dust. Sand. Dust.

Knees buckle.
Buckets spill.
Still she perserveres.

Dust. Sand. Dust.

She has children to feed.

nice.