It's become a
bowl of dirt
cracking into
patterns
seen on Waterford crystal
but no fluidity
-- only tumbleweed
blown across
the lake
like a cage
skirt
discarded yet belonging
to someone
glimpsed beyond
the Palo Verde trees,
light shifting
from a female shape
to breathless
cloud. Some woman
who first appeared -- retracing her steps
from older
days, (the homesteader's plot)
and then gusts
into parched silt.
The asthma of
drought.
_____________________________________________________________________When I came to
Even now when I look at a reservoir, completely dried up, but surrounded by Palo Verde trees and that "certain slant" of glare or ghostly light, I sense a presence, a story of someone who was there centuries before, someone who still haunts the place searching for something lost or seeking to relay some kind of message, especially during this historic drought. In the dust, there is still breath, something/someone that is both dead and vital someone that once was flesh but now spirit.
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