Little by little, darkness swallows light and the year wanes, but there are no yellow and crimson leaves blown from trees and matted by rain to the sidewalk, no fog obscuring the future that lies more than a few steps in any direction, no scent of woodsmoke staining crisp air.
It's so easy to become lost in the desert.
Nothing makes much sense outside of natural cycles.
The always blue sky is a blank page mocking me with its constancy, belittling me with its vastness. All that openeness defies language, refuses the circularity of seasons, alters perspective so that I can stand here, looking into the emptiness and all meaning is lost.
I kneel and offer prayers for rain.
My soul is parched and dying of thirst.
i suffocate i breathe in dirt and nowhere shines but desolateAnother morning creeps above the horizon with its shiny happy sun and the warmth I despise, everything so desicated, the ocotillo bare, the saguaro shriveling. Hummingbirds defend access to a feeder as though it were the only food, and I stand at my window craving salty sea winds, gulls, the penetrating rains that soak a body deep into the bones.
and drab the hours all spent on killing time again
all waiting for the rain[1]
When do these metaphorical 40 days end?
How do I get the taste of dirt from my mouth?
[1] Lyrics by Robert Smith, "Prayers for Rain"
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