caroline ridgway

Maybe there was a time
when you tilled expectation’s soil,
sowed seeds of heirloom hopes, and
raindanced under brewing skies.
Maybe there was a time before you
learned to look away, when you
dared stare square into rising
possibility, before the rains
didn’t come. Maybe there was a
time—later, later, how much later—
when all certainties laid bare
in cracked earth run into rivulets
and there is no regret but resounding
reason to dig for rain, long buried;
look again at potentiality unearthed.