A sprinkling of stars. A smattering of kisses. She was loved once. Properly. There were flowers and kisses. Love was wine and poured freely. She was constantly drunk on the notion. The well runs dry and she is parched. Where is she now? A cactus. Retaining what little moisture she can until the great rain falls on her head again. Spiny and coarse she hides herself well. If only for the moment. Where is her Indian to chant and bring the rainfall?