Footsteps in the sand
Of a desert
With one tree of 40 fruit in
Something comfy when sweat
Beads up and rolls down
The sides of your forehead
To be cooled by a nearly
Every step from tired legs.
Thousands of tracks trailing
Someone searching for something.
The tree. The only tree.
Maybe a mirage out in the distance
But a lead to that something.
That promising tree.
Tales of the branches and
Stories of its fruit spread
Like a web of knowing.
Surviving in this kind of heat
Where rockets cross the skies
And seed clouds with chemtrails.
This kind of cocktail humidity.
Fruits of 40 trees on one.
In this desert, the last one left
Standing grand in the dunes.
Death valley. Bones jutt
Out of the 24 karat grains.
A metal flower might grow nearby.
Slick friction of crushed precious
Rock glazes the feet and ankles.
No dust kicks up from walking.
From wandering. Waterless and
Botherless in a desert barren but
Of that one tree of 40 fruit, kept
Alive by rockets in the skies.
Arid. A wet arid you wish you could
Reach out and pluck aromatic
Water from the air. But it
Will fall soon. This is what heat
Is here. A dry blister on every
tiny atom, with chemicals and yearning,
Watered and feathered by hot breezes.