" Desert Dialects "
In the
cutting sun, shadow and crevasse
mark the cost
of drought and flood. I step aside from shrubs that lie
low and tap deep. I wait
for you to speak of rain and the
beautiful
depths of
thunderheads gathered for the spring;
rain that draws
the cactus flower and hard adapted fauna.
I wait. The evening star.
A bellied moon. The herald drops
and
desert night
chill my blistered skin. Water fills
the hollows
of my footprints as you speak instead of summer.
Shallow pools deepen, draw
my eyes downward to see the moon
reflecting.
© 2002 Paul Lyons
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