It's become a bowl of dirt
cracking into patterns
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.