Rita Jette Poems

Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.
...

Rain,
it drips and drips,
to the tune of dismay,
so melancholy is the sound,
...

As the grass does wither, and soon fades away,
So the frail life here, in its limited day.
As the wind blows hither, and then goes its way,
So man in his sphere, visits a limited day.
...