“Here you have no rain when all the earth cries for it, or quick downpours called cloud-bursts for violence. A land of lost rivers with little in it to love; yet a land that once visited must be come back to inevitably.”
-Mary Austin, The Land of Little Rain
Between you and me
sits a country of lost borders
void of demarcation or
dotted lines,
no arrangement of the land
that separates
for we are both loose and
woven sand:
a glitter mix
of brackish black
and toothsome tan
topography.
What is the
synonym for the
sun-dried shape
of us drawn
with dwarf definitions,
like flora flowing hairs
unwashed locks in
in a land of little rain.
Between you and me
sits a country of lost borders
and a place of many
unsung seasons yet here
I stand tracing the
sand with my faithful fingers.
mindbodysoulpoetry 