For too long.
It has been too long...

I sit and flip back through
the scrapbooks collected in my head...

Searching. Reaching. Pleading for one reason,
one touch, one gesture,
one true declaration...

I can't find one, not one.
If one exists, now its gone...

What I have endured
without the simplest sustenance,
not so much as a grizzle scrap...

And still I must give?
I have nothing of worth.
I am not sure that I ever have...


        A willow, wilts and dies
in a neverending drought...

What will I do
when the last drop in the well is gone?

Does the last full bucket look different
from the ones drawn before?

When the tree falls in the woods
and no one cares either way
is it worth the effort
for the poor pathetic thing
to make a sound at all?