Lament for a Pillar of Salt

They tell me your garden
is overgrown by burdock
thistle and wild mustard,
and if there is no rain
even weeds will wither there.

I have no time to look:
I hoe my own garden rows,
carry buckets all day
and sing to our children
to ease their memories
of your raving and fall to earth.

They tell me less each week,
and I meet you less
in wind-tossed dreams;
your screaming across the valley
is finally erased by wind
the lowing of cattle
and vocabulary of crows.

I pray for rain.

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