she is arid,
a cool bride, though,
adept in her dance, and
albeit
it’s sometimes agonizing
when she speaks,
she is glorious,
akin to Pike’s Peak,
as the sun pours
that
sun
shine
beauty
down,
on her
naked back,
onto her light,
tan
motions
that drive,
drive
through the desert air,
and parch me
with their drought,
their desert congeniality,
you folded maid,
you,
you prowling goddess,
I cannot compare you
to anything else
but to sun
and sand
and
desert flowers