The sun winks
As he turns toward night,
and blush washes over
the breast of thin clouds
Thick velvet mat of treetops
are shot with shining
green threads woven
through by busy lighting bugs
I breathe air
thick with mist
of time, and think
I hear my name
I roll the base
of my glass in its
puddle of sweat
on the table
the raspy, low voice
of flayed earth
calls me across the miles
the sound falling like
grains of sand down through
leaves fish-scaled up to the sky’s
watery surface
the outside edge of my soul
misses the open arms
of desert galaxies
that echo with song
and winds adornment
around the waist
of a yearning not numbed
by spirits.
~LD