poetry from the desert in May
The atmosphere of intense, too-early heat led to this poem. The river is the San Pedro River below us. It used to flow year-round.
The moon stands high
Above the mountains, which are pink,
And the sky
Is a pale and simmered blue
Which a bird flies through
Between vastness of sky and stone.
For here we are alone,
Ever ever alone
Between the gods and the bones
And the womb of our birth
Is running dry;
You can hear the river cry,
But the small things and I
Do not choose to die.
We have climbed to the knees
Of the gods, and they are at ease.
Wake them, my people, they sleep,
And evils creep,
But the gods, will they hear, do you think?
I composed this haiku last night as a bright sliver of moon peeked out from under earth’s shadow.
Time’s long slow heartbeat
falls across the moon's face now
in red-edged shadow.
As summer sets in in earnest, our resident redbird (northern cardinal) is still singing.
On top of high pole
redbird sings to morning–whoosh!
the song is flying!
Hearing the river cry, what a powerful and saddening image. Great writing.