Desert

 

There can be no mistakes

When the prairie remains dry

Again.

Returning to the dust of my childhood.

To the dust of bible times.

Coating everything with a thin film.

Choking out the lesser creatures with grit and haze and heat and the volcanic stare of the sun.

Fine sand caught between my toes.

Lodged in the space where I can only taste the hint of something, but feel the rough paper texture in my mouth.

We do not get a mulligan.

Each action has a cost

And there are a finite number of choices

Each dwindling based on the previous one.

The sand whirls in a tight circle,

Climbing a little higher each gust

Slow in its ascension

To a titan

To a god.

As it blots out the light and the wind’s screech moves from background to center stage.

I look up and face it.

The inevitable conclusion

Before the curtain

And the applause.