Hands. (Photo credit: Mrs Logic)
Behold the salted land of plenty,
raped and pillaged by its own devoted grace
now stalked by storied banshee
no lines by which to draw a brace.
What bounty once divined,
what passion might have lain
now blinded and maligned
before the dusty plow could feign.
We are cracked
callow and divinely sallow—
yes, youth has lived to see the fated act:
these writers’ hands grown fallow.
(And for an update on why this crazy writer’s life has been crazy this past week, and the blogging sporadic, see my lively life update–complete with a new review of The Hollow March!)
