Out
of this poem
grows
a little desert flower.
it
is blue sorrow
it
waits for your return.
You
escape so you must from me
refuge,
folded, wrapped in cool spring rain leaves-
avoiding
July, August heat.
South
wind hellfire burns memories within you,
branded
I tattoo you, leave my mark,
in
rose barren fields fueled with burned and desert stubble.
Yet
I wait here, a loyal believer throat raw in thirst.
I
wrest thunder gods gathering ritual-prayer rain.
It
is lonely here grit, tears rub my eyes without relief.
Yet
I catch myself loafing away in the wind waiting fate
to
whisper those tiny messages
writer
of this storm welded wings,
I
go unnoticed but the burned eyes of red-tailed hawk
pinch
of hope, sheltered by the doves.
I
tip a toast to quench your thirst,
one
shot of Tequila my little, purple, desert
flower.
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