Old poems, new motifs

Dry Days

Parched hearts,
and thirsty souls,
all of them
share in common,
long forgotten flows of love
or release, or just being spent.

The instant brings memories
of butterflies
dragonfly moths
even water lilies
like nightmares riding
piggyback; on dreams.

Yet love
(and hope)
stay
somehow surviving
the dry days
waiting for spring,
to be spent, in release.

(I discovered this piece written on a scrap of paper, while going through other scraps of paper that have my ride logs. The handwriting is evidently mine, though I cannot really comprehend what made me write this and when. But I do think this poem (??) belongs here, though I wouldn't call it verse myself.)