Desert Heart

HIKING GOLDEN BROWN HILLS, sun dazzling, dry breeze hot
I kneel before a great flat stone and, struck from behind
I am surprised to find my heart on that stone, rhythmically
Pulsing, wet, alive, dislocated, ugly

It should be sterile, that heart, but it gathers chaff
And grains of sand, wind blown, and tiny pebbles from
The rock on which it beats. Its sticky wetness defies
The dehydrating air, the desiccating sun, the drying dirt

I pick it up, hurl it toward a sea that lies beyond
The horizon. Borne aloft, it is a miracle that it plashes
Out beyond the turbid, crashing waves and half sinks
Half floats in the moist milieu, shedding sand and sticks

Beating still, wet still, living still

Ron – 16 Aug 2008