Monsoon hovering; bored on the horizon.
It's been some years now that I've been in the desert and it's motions have solidified in my veins pulsing with blinding white intensity. The suns up high hanging on the horizon pushing the ground towards a certain level of dryness impossible to describe to those in more damp climes. And so it is of no surprise the rain is on the mind often. Climate nudges at the mind and polishes our tendency shaping our moods. Mostly these years have been about time and focus and memory and objects.
A thousand tribulations until the waterfalls come forward and give us a proper chance. We eat fireflies for dinner sometimes to keep the spark and the corner of our mouths clean. We dip and dive asunder underneath a travelers moon; hunting the illustrious mushroom and wondering after the sandwiches of yore.
This is our lot, here, in the desert.
the sky. upward gaze.
neck soar from staring at the screen.
eyes week to bright light.
can't really enjoy the blue.
bringer of rain.
mistress of clouds.
imagination of gods.
the lair of the immortal.
the bane of Iccarus.
we live and die by her tears.
the tears of joy are better
than those of sadness and complacency.
when the weeds start to wither away.
you know it's going to be a long summer.
And the season is over. The sun returns, now less intense, and the light is a full yellow instead of the brilliant white of the perfectly vertical orb. The plants give it their best; the food is gathered and eaten.
The green wanes.
The winter comes.
The dry returns.