She flowed...

She flowed...

A stillness slept, draped across the settled sands,
Without arousal to the senses of Sound or Sight,
Save for the breeze, which caressed like a gentle hand,
All that it knew there, nestled in the chilling night.
The desert was peaceful.
Precious fluids, reserved for yet another day,
The unborn seed unknowing of its timeless plight.
Humbled thirsts, the yucca plant and tumbling hay,
Subconsciously hoped for the nimbus flight.
The desert was patient.
The choir sung, courtships blossomed with the red dawn sun,
Coyote, Jackrabbit, and Prickly-Pear;
Circular themes, living apart but surviving as one,
Ancient spirits danced across the grains they shared.
The desert was home.

Without a cloud to give warning, or the melting of snow,
A river was born with a nurturing flow.
Like a serpentine lover to the dry burning land,
Her winding body kissed life into dormant sand.
Where once slept a seed, there then stirred a flower,
And all was turned green with her life giving power.

No longer would mouths of the thirsty stay dry.
No longer would hopes be reserved for the sky.
No longer would needle-point winds groan and scratch at the flesh like the angry lost souls of poached pumas.

Through every winding ripple sprang a new blade of grass,
And pussy-willows hung over sparkled, flowing glass,
Which secreted into surrounding earth bleeding life into night-sky petunias.

Spotted moths fluttered, fanning love into the moon's hazy light.
Dragonflies hovered, buzzing luck into the morning bright.
The coyote knelt to drink from this water,
Along side the Jackrabbit, then as a son and a daughter,
Suckling peace and rapture from the river's soothing flow,
That sang back to bright-faced Tawa with a reflective glow.

Every petal, every blade, every leaf and green shade,
Saw its life in that river and the path that she made,
Through the sands, through the hills, through pillars of stone,
A Queen of highest beauty upon a rock-bed throne.

Riding a horse made of all answered prayers,
She flowed through this desert, she flowed through her cares.
A Queen, a Rider, a Mother, this river
The desert reborn from what she delivered,
But the serpentine lover could not kiss forever,
And as her lips dried, all ties had been severed.
As much without warning as the day she had come,
Evaporating into spectral mist, she ended her run.
And as flowers and willows began wilting away
The yucca grew more thirsty with each passing day.

A speckled wind, blows across a thirsty land,
Without acknowledgement to the senses of Touch or Taste,
Except for flame-like heat, that slaps the sand like an angry hand
A bitter reminder of love, loss and waste.
Rocks, Dust, and Bones, are all that remain of former plans,
All green to brown, hope falls from grace.
The desert is dry.
The sun retreats, unable to cope with the tragic scenes,
Leaving all sadness to a waxing moon.
Air like ice, reaching through flesh and torturing dreams,
Exodus of all life back deep in the dunes.
Save for a single Coyote, a tear caught solid before it careens,
Frozen on a long face that laments love-lost too soon.
The desert is cold.
This Prairie-Wolf, weeping out lyrics innate to his songs,
Staring at the ground where once a flower was growing.
White sands shift, beneath the weight of four-toed prongs,
Seeming to sigh with the notion that all life is slowing.
Raising his head, the lone Coyote inhales -- his eyes, with the moon, follow along -- And cries out to the night, "I miss your flowing."
The desert is alone.