Unconventional Love Sonnet #7
The desert speaks in riddles. Muted grays
and greens hide some secret further obscured
by searing sun. Any syntax of meaning crumbles
until all that remains is the naked moment,
unabashed in its revelation of nothing and
everything. The mind groans under the ambiguity
of now, demanding context more concrete
than the coyote's howl, the willowy breeze, or
the hummingbird's erratic flight. This landscape,
this impenetrable mystery, is not our home.
We are trespassers amid red rock, strangers
who have solved a single variable. In the quiet
solace of touch, the riddles become a prophecy
transforming confusion into a fertile presence.