PENnED

Some days, the desert is a hush—
a pale blue bowl of sky,
air so tender it feels borrowed,
and the sun, newly awake,
warming the world as if by accident.

Other days, it stirs—
clouds drifting in like slow‑moving thoughts,
rain offering its brief, silver whisper,
and the wind, when it rises,
carrying the faint perfume of beginnings.

I live between these moods—
the bright and the muted, the still and the trembling.
Spring teaches in half‑sentences,
in the way light lengthens quietly,
in the way a single green blade
can tilt the whole day toward hope.

The desert speaks in contrasts:
silence that shimmers,
heat that blesses,
and the barest ground holding tight
to a bloom it has not yet revealed.

So I rise,
whether the sky is tender or wild,
whether the breeze is shy or insistent,
and I live—
not around the desert,
but through it,
as it opens itself,
one bright breath at a time.