Grove in Drought
This was the Easter when it rained so little
That all the olive groves were grimed with dust
Along the road. The sapless twigs were brittle,
Ceding, like wires yielding glint to rust,
Their hoard of stored up sun and all their greenness—
Except one crest, whose brightness drained its root.
Here clay had pushed beyond all clay's uncleanness
And then, exhausted, withered without fruit.