Desert of Earthly Delights

          Let them say this:
          That you knew how to flower in these bonds
                    – David Fisher

The first of worldly flowers
opens its petals one scented night
to absorb the moonlight
and exhale forgiveness to the dark,
dark sky for all
the madness it releases
in men.

The good years gone to seed,
the fires of Earth
don’t know what next to burn, and yet
mountains still flow
against the morning skies
and on their slopes
the winds take time to rest, to contemplate
which colors to release.

Green for hope, blue for rest,
happiness in blooming reds and yellows.
The rain must decide what to be
after soaking underground and rising
in rebellion against
drought and misery. The beauty of existing
out of sight is that
when the earth cracks and a glimpse
of sky calls out
for attention the drops climbing
into light can’t tell and don’t care whether
they become a blossom
or a weed.

A mountain’s birth demands
attention from the earth and sky and everything
between. It begins
with terrifying silence,
continues when a rumbling breaks
from impatient ground
and sound turns into rock as nature
reaches for its destiny
prepared from now on to endure
the endless patience immortality conveys.

A lost seed
circumnavigates the world
until it falls
where fertility and need
combine to call it home.

The night blooms as they close
do not look back
to count the bones the owl
left on the ground. They’ve had their few
delicious hours
and fold away the memories they know
they will not need again.

 
Wide open, horizons
loop around the emptiness the land appears
to be. But for whomever is persistent
there is a flower bright
with consolation where the road
to grief and loneliness
intersects with that
to mercy.

A red wind blowing, blue rain coming down
on land that doesn’t need it
and yellow scents crossing borders
between what’s real
and what the newscasts say.
Delicately arrayed against the early sky
are mountains soaking
color from the sun and apprehension
from houses now awakening
to face the day. O, traffic
have mercy on the roads they cry, televisions
curb your tongues: the language
of language is
deceit.

Headlights on the darkest night
feel for stormlight in the clouds,
volcano breath and rivers
looking for a place from which to flow
off the world’s edge where they
turn into wind. The sky sways left,
the sky sways right, the horizon
holds its place between forces
destined never to meet
and yet the dip and rise of asphalt
carries all who travel in red rock time
with only faith for fuel.

Desert rising, dust on its toes, the night wind
can’t sleep. Stars in a coyote’s tail,
homesick stones along
the trails. Blue memory, an owl
with the moon beneath her wing
and time on hold. There is a boulder fallen
from the universe that chose
a place to add its weight
to land’s resistance.

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David Chorlton

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