“The drought came with the volcano. Street lamps frowned through ash-made dark. Homes turned into hills with chimneys peeking out the summits. We hummed as we trudged through the wreckage, until our hums turned into songs. We didn’t know what else to do. Tears wouldn’t water the grass. Cries wouldn’t call the birds home.” DeathLossDiagnosisDroughtAshWreckageVolcanoChimney Book:Survived By: A Memoir in Verse + Other Poems Source: Survived By: A Memoir in Verse + Other Poems