Morning broke, cold and damp,

grey with clouds

saving the snow for another tomorrow,

passing shadows over dead grasses

left from blackberry winter.

So cold.

down to my bones cold,

here in memories

of breath-stealing heat of summer gone past,

here in wishes

for a faint warm caress of musky magnolia breezes,

creamy white splashed amongst a green

that colors the grass again.

In this place of wilting ladies

and old men

smelling briefly peach brandy,

keeping time with time.

I exist now in no time,

only this place drawn into itself.

And then upon the eve of setting suns,

painted by brushstrokes of desert risings,

another bursting star on the horizon appears.

A pondering desert wanderer, shadowed and

no longer seeking treasures,

no more to taste the freshness of cool springs,

dying sunsets haunting,

she comes through the night unaware

of her own desires too long dormant.

Into the lush green she stumbles,


yet content to never find,

content to exist in the place only as one passing by,

onward, deeper into the darkest reach of her soul’s lament.

A flash of lightning fills her mind,

one word,

one thought of recognition.

And the hunger returns,

the thirst torments.


This one of desert dreams imprisoned,

embraces the sunrise of a new horizon,

even as she glanced backward to her setting

star that had shone briefly yet so brightly.

And turning eastward, she comes alive again.

nmhill © 1 january 2002


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