Golden eyes flecked with desert sand
infused with amber threads of sunlight
reach over the distant eastern winds
to find me walking farther west,
but never far enough
before returning to where it began.
There is a place where dust creeps
where light is only a trick of mirror magic
and there is a dryness so deep
that the cracks and ravines
provide a grave
for all my silent wishes.
There is a place
where all the old familiar haunts reside
where missed encounters rest
until they are summoned
for another bitter disappointment.
And perhaps it is natural to live here
where the seasons bear no harvest
and corners once loved fade untended
and the desert wind comes again
bearing the sand that is your eyes
again in a storm that forbids new flower.
You are closed to me
as the clouds close their eyes;
closed, so no rain may ever fall here,
no matter where I wander.
And in the sand, little silver things
have lost their luster
without a breath to awaken them;
there is a dryness
that reaches so deep
I cannot drink, I cannot drown;
I am not graced with even enough water
to purify my eyes again.