So This Is the Valley of the Sun

 

They call it the desert.  A wasteland

with bones sticking up through the sand.

A plain, dry, yellowing

spreading epidemic-like for miles.

 

But the first thing you notice is you’re alive.

Palm fronds wave you in, smooth and gentle

like a Kenny G in the wind,

causing your upper lip to curl.

 

You smile, full, back to the sun,

forgetting that inner chill you’ve been

lugging along with your bad knee,

that ache in your neck, the pain in your lungs.

 

Late winter, a touch of spring, and citrus blossoms perfume the air.

You want to sip that pink sherbert sky,

tear off a piece and hold it to your lover’s lips for a taste,

letting it drip from your hands, and scoop some more.

 

You forget what you’ve been told

about harsh winters, about valleys

being metaphors for dark,

depressing no man’s lands.

 

You touch your fingers to your own lips,

like when you remember that kiss—

sweet as the agave growing here, soft as baja fairy dusters

blushing, flirty and brushing, smooth as aloe.

 

And that’s when you notice you found it—

that lost feeling of stretching yourself out

like a puppy on the lawn, or a cat in the triangle ray

slipping through the window—

 

seeing past the cholla

to the mighty saguaros

with their arms held high in praise—

and you know why.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

After Ted Kooser’s “So This Is Nebraska” poem for dVerse Poetics.  I’m hosting—come join us!

Located in the Sonoran Desert the “Valley of the Sun” has been the nickname for the greater Phoenix, Arizona area since the 1930’s.  The Sonoran Desert, also, is the only place saguaros grow.

 

Petal Peril

Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep on a Sonoran Desert summer, or an underdog, or dark horses, or mama bears.  Such pretty things—have teeth.  They can bite; they can burn.  They last while the world tumbles and turns.  Grow fierce in threat of storm.  Stand tall when assumed to fall.  Underestimate them at your peril.  Pretty petals may be fragile—roots are not.

 

desert willow petals

blowing sideways

straight against the fall

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics: “Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep…”

 

Prey

 

You were

fishing for me—

 

sliding your hand along

my dorsal and tail fins,

 

my dark olive hair,

my golden throat.

 

But you forgot

this bow

of sinew, cedar, and bone,

 

my Apache blood—

huntress, not game—

 

and this arrow which carries

your name.

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Q

 

El Vernadero

 

It’s more than a place,

it’s a calling—

where red hibiscus,

and pink, too,

blush the air with their kisses.

 

This old Spanish hotel,

a retreat among royal palms,

where Florence’s Alcove

calls poets back to their gurgling dreams

near carvings of animals

and fountains for black-throated sparrows.

 

It’s more than a respite, or retreat,

it’s an oasis shaded in the desert sun,

where little casitas dot storied stone pathways

 

—and just walking here

turns lion to lamb,

and my eyes—brown silk,

soft and lamplit,

as if in parallel realm,

cured of the madness

of a lesser world.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Combining the prompts from two of my most-admired poets.

Shay’s Word Garden Word List

Dora’s Poetics at dVerse: A View of One’s Own (I’m too late to link)

 

“El Vernadero” means “winter haven” and was the original name of the “Royal Palms” at the base of Camelback Mountain in Arizona.  I live locally and visit it often—and feel as if I’m on vacation every time I do—even just walking the grounds.  I could not love it more.

 

Photos © 2025 Jennifer Wagner