Spartina

Her place is the edge of the sea:
planted on the coastline
one foot dug into the beach sands
the other slipping beneath the cold dark waves

surrounded by water she is unable to drink
and eternally waiting for the scattered storm
to lick the salt of tears and sweat
from ragged, fraying skin.

She is patient.

When the drought comes,
the Riverlanders will paw at dusty, bare earth
and splinter their nails on channel lag,
digging desperately for untainted fluid
to raise to their lips.

The Lake Dwellers will dredge and wallow in pits of mud
and beg to be pulled free
when their bodies inevitably sink down
into the viscous mire.

But she will be where she has always been:
surviving the salt and the wind and the thirst,
expertly waiting for the clouds to open,
for a sign to raise her face to the sky.