There is a drought
in the mountains and valleys
of my writing room
where Santa Ana winds whip
through the window
and leave dust balls
that cower in the corner.
My wastebasket is filled with
with crumbled paper
arid notes, unfinished
work, and false starts.
A prickly pear cactus
on the desk does not
need water, it stands proud
and tall, its yellow flowers
begin to pop.
But my poems need
nourishment to grow.
Prompts are not enough
to feed them.
Paper is blank,
my pen is dry.
Drought feeds fire.
A river of searing flames
and deep gray ash sweeps down
from the summit above,
threatens our neighborhood,
destroying all the poems
I’ve written, and those
that might have been.