Becoming The Muse

That phantom rain…
You can smell it, you can feel it in the breeze, you can even hear it raining..

…and then when you go outside and it’s dry bones, dry bones,
when will these bones rise?

Clouds gather like prophecy,
And we,
We are the congregation waiting for the downpour,
When will the dust remember it was once a river?

Dry bones, dry bones,
when will these bones rise?