Oh! young woman mounted on rocks
you watch the new month rise, its sun
red as the salamander
who clings to the lush comfort
of moss and leaves. Who flares
inside the spongy dampness of a log.
You wait for the blood rush
of morning to flood the sky
and fill your veins with vitality.
So watch carefully and cherish
those moments that soon dissolve
into hot flashes of glare. The desert turns
to burlap and sage brush. Cacti
and Joshua trees stoop
in the wind as if listening
to something they can’t hear
only feel. The snake rattles -- the womb’s song
of stones Yet, somewhere a scrub jay
flashes its blue agility
under the prickly scrap,
and you remember eyes.
The luminous insight
burning a thousand years
beyond her age.