There will be willows plunging
Their bloodless roots in air
And the hard crooked flying
Of buzzards circled there.
About the treeless wastes
No sand may ever heap
With water, nothing will run
And nothing creep.
Arid, desolate, defiant
Under its iron band
Of sky, we yet may love
This so sunny land.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on November 5, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.