This is desert, a place with no steady center –
gateway to the land of promise.
My bones, not yet bleached,
buckle as each foothold becomes a hip deep slide.
Hand and mind claw – nothing coheres.
I am not dry so much as burnished by glazy grains.
A lone stalk withered brown,
it too wears the sheen of ground glass.
By some vagary of black cloud it may green,
sprout buds into flowers,
adhere to life in this ever shifting world.