The Desert

Liam Stover

When I drive through this unfinished landscape of space and sky,
I am told that the wildflowers will bloom later upon the fingers of the saguaros when the monsoon rains come
Their arms reaching to the stars with the soft desert wind blowing past, like the soft whisper of a woman in your ear.
I see the gray green saguaros with their bodies like anchored legs looking like some form of a Martian forest,
Alien and yet beautiful.
The ridged mountains like the arches of Parisian monuments meet me upon instance and surround me like a fortified wall of a medieval castle
Ancient and serene they watch over me as the yellow moon like a floodlight at a high school football game illuminates the painted landscape of gray hills, black valleys, red mountains, and yellow pearls of mystical sand and rock
It is my box of coloring crayons.

And I drive through this wormhole of ages gone past.

My desert is an old man lost to time
It is wise and ancient with knowledge of eons and lost memories,
As pass through the valley and the glowing orange lights of Phoenix light up the desert I am already wishing to return.
I take my leave and tip my hat to this vast land of beauty.


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