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…”

 

Mourning Dove in Milk and Pepper

 

Like dropped white petals

in the Colonel’s yard,

lie wing bones

and feathers—

 

cat, coyote, or

desert skunk,

having taste for only

head and trunk.

 

But, no hint of scent

of the last night spent—basting

in the coo that ended in a coup.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Quadrille

 

things that glow in the dark

 

under the blacklight

they glow green

and grow still

 

sometimes they’re

tucked into a nook

like a lost doubloon

 

ready to sting like a curse

for one stolen

pieces of eight

 

sometimes they fall with a plump green thump

on the lawn burning white

in the moon’s light

 

sitting like plastic children’s rings

stuck into the green buttercream of supermarket

cupcakes near all hallows’ eve, harmless—

 

or like tonight, behind my eyes

while dreaming, a memory, a fog of gray-green

shadow moving scorpion-like,

 

not carrying enough venom

to kill,

but still—

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse mtb