I am dry inside, like aged wood, laying
               with others like myself in a pile, too stiff
               to embrace, too hard to warm one another,
               too damaged to grow;  fit only for the fire.

               I am dry inside like some high-desert
               riverbed in August.  The thirsty animals
               limp away in despair and I can not slake
               their raw and dust-burnt throats.

               I am dry inside like a cracked, ancient 
               volume of remedies.  My binding strings are snapped
               and rotted.  My pages are a brittle parchment 
               worn grey by too many hands.  My healing recipes
               are inked too faintly to be read any longer.