(Scratching Out This New Arizona Life)
In the air,
the scent of mesquite trees
and fry bread.
By the side of the road,
a dark head bobbing
above a collection
of turquoise and silver rings.
On my skin,
a touch of needling sun
like fresh stitching on a wound
too long held open.
Jesus healed with spit and dust.
A vermilion flycatcher,
like blood confetti
dripping from branch,
to branch,
to branch—
let’s me get closer
each time he sees us,
my hands full of mud.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner
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© 2023 Jennifer Wagner |
It’s still a few weeks away from the yellow-gray of November. And even further from here. In the desert, the air has shifted to cooler—not 118, but now 80. The heat is more of a hug than a grizzly’s maul. The Valley of the Sun is not cool and dreary come autumn. It’s a valley of a different color. Kind color—sweet, perhaps. And it feels more like the mountaintop. After all, we survived summer.
bougainvillea
a wave of color
at summer’s finish line
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Haibun Monday: Fall foliage or Spring blossoms
(I’m posting too late for the link.)