RIP Juan Bruce-Novoa

A Poem By Juan Bruce-Novoa

Poor Little Word

          Poor little word
            stream-stone,
       how you sang
         Spring days
        and laughed
      greenly brilliant
    under the child sun,
when they whispered to you
        the prophecy
      of the drought.
    They have taken the water.
          Do you die of thirst?

                            No.
                      Of silence.