It can't be enough anymore.
The spring is running dry
No river laps the canyon,
and the ridge is bare of oaks.
Just sulfur urine waves stain
and stink the range's skirts; now
sheets of flame fly on wings
of desert wind, to flank the peak.
Now the song of birds and crickets' chirps
are all defunct. The needle
cannot prick the vein, too thin
for want of blood.
No rivers, only riverbeds
like eyebrows on the moon
No tears left to shed
for the infirm, wasting in her room.