[Hollylane]

Originally Posted by femmeInterrupted

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

(The Waste Land)

I can't help it, this whole poem reminds me of how I felt living in Arizona. I apparently was born in the wrong state, and needed to be somewhere that moisture exists in abundance.