Dry Season

by RebShang

Some days, my words 
        be 
                        broke. 

Little cogs and bits that
came straight out of the box that
don't click and whirl
like the way they should.

So I fix them.

It's the Other days,
these days, when my words 
cannot be fixed,

When my words have
     wi
       th
         er
           ed.

Little pods and blooms that
lie dormant deep, deep within that
husk of an orchid, sleep
like the way they should.

So I must wait.

I sit by the sill, the window open 
just a crack, thirsting for the
pitter
patter
of the rain.


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