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.
