Walk with me in my desert

barefoot in this morning dew

Where my hollows reverberate

from last night’s storm

of hailing sand

carried by the wail of the guitar

stinging my face

Plucking, awakening tesserae —

of what will never be

of dreamstories

An uprooted cactus

bleeds orange and tangerine

into the past

Lingering dust,

of what will be,

caked into the wings

of the eye’s butterfly

Where pearls of saudade

roll with your touch

over the bridge of my nose —

melting into the cool sand

And my hand reaches out —

Walk with me in my desert

barefoot in this morning dew