Thursday, February 18, 2010


Copyright © 2010 Amanda Morris Johnson

My hands, dry and wretched,
Are the desert waiting
With something related to patience
With resignation
Longing drained out so long ago,
Waiting for a cloud

Moreover, when the cloud arrives –
Like a muse hovering there –
My hands, the desert,
They’re not ready for the surge.
Where’s the pen? Where’s
The paper?

Helplessly watching the water
Rise and rush away to
Some more welcome stream
The storm passes. Calm waiting
Restored to my somewhat patient
Acquiescence. It almost sounds wet.

My hands, the desert,
Curve around the intermittent snake
And outcrop-shaded mesquite grove,
Full of need to give more
But being just sand, hot wind and sky
The desert, my hands, flattens.

My retention is short-lived.
My dry season is long. The horizon all
around and far away. My only
Hope – that this is good enough
For snake, and tree, and birds
that recognize when a dream falters
And consume it.

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