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Chuparosas sip from the cups
of orange-red ocotillo blooms,
the sky waves fresh gold dust
and the desert’s perfume
rises with spring
cracking open every new thing—
even as something old,
something blue, hangs between us
stitched darkly like threads
around a once-golden sun.
But I’ve long stopped wishing
for nothing blue.
Without night, I’d miss the stars.
Without the needle, there’d be no quilt.
Without seeing in a different light,
I’d miss the sharp beauty produced by thorns.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Poetics: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
What’s Going On? Choosing Beauty
