
William ‘AI’ Wordsworth had a few words.
I have never been ‘into’ poetry, but AI Gemini seems to love it.
The Sun, a tyrant on a thirsty land,
Has bleached the fields with unrelenting hand.
The pasture, once a quilt of emerald hue,
Now cracks and crumbles, brittle, brown, and new.
No whisper stirs the desiccated corn,
No dewdrops grace the leaf at early morn.
The cattle low with sad and weary sighs,
And dust motes dance before our longing eyes.
Yet, in the stillness, hope begins to creep,
a scent of petrichor from slumber deep.
A distant murmur, from a shadowed hill,
The rustling of the wind, now soft and still.
We watch the clouds, a building, heavy gray,
And breathe some hope to end this parched display.
For what is grass without the blessed rain?
A silent promise, we shall live again.
Jack
