Feb 17
Empty Silo
Nothing could have ever grown here
No room within the cracks for new seeds
A drizzle of tears watering these grounds
Blooms burnt by the salt within
Was it worth to plant anything at all?
Drain the soil of what little remained
Stagnant puddles rotting new sprouts
No time for the sun to dry them
Specter of failed harvest hugging its ribs
Perhaps these woods should have never been cleared
What little could be foraged from them
Could at least trick starvation