How long before her milk runs cold to touch?
How strong the squall that quiets flowing founts?
And bitter babe's intolerant lips clutch
Upon this mother's weathered shape, she counts
The sheep of valley bright, breath wuthering
Across the night. Haboob's soot can one choke
Upon, still, desiccated mothering
Leaves something to desire: the babe too croaks.
Perhaps, the temperature lacked false warmth,
Her temperance inside derived from cold,
For numbing lactose grows endurance north,
And feeds intolerance to turning old.
Just stay to hum sweet melodies tonight,
And feign responsibility in blight.

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