For Twenty Years She Has Bloomed On Christmas Day — Image by kenne
Every year, she opens
without asking why—
white mouths of praise
lifting from the green.
How many ways
can faith be quiet?
— kenne
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Wispy Clouds High Above The Santa Catalina Mountains — by kenne
Desert Imagist
Thin wispy clouds —
ice threads pulled across the high blue,
as if the sky were mending itself
with pale stitching.
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Aging by kenne
A beard teaches patience:
days become weeks,
weeks become memory.
You learn what it means
to grow slowly,
and not mind the uneven parts.
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A Christmas Touch — Image by kenne
Rain in the desert on Christmas Eve,
the kind that doesn’t wash anything clean,
just blurs the outside lights
and my nerves.
Some of the family visiting for Christmas —
the women feeding video poker
machines at Del Sol casino
their pensions and prayers,
one still face down in sleep
another out birding,
counting feathers instead of people,
as usual.
And me—
alone with a cup of black coffee,
on the table next to the laptop
with Alexa playing in the background.
They say this is how it goes.
They say this is normal.
But something’s crooked in the picture —
like a smile held too long,
like a joke nobody laughs at
because it’s too close to the truth.
Christmas keeps insisting
I should feel something.
All I feel is the rain
tapping the window
knowing I’m home
and doesn’t care who else isn’t.
— kenne
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Hands in Soil (2005) by kenne
Hands in soil,
the old language returns—
shared labor,
shared laughter,
the first vines trembling in their beds of earth.
This is how belonging begins:
not in words,
but in what we choose
to plant together.
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Desert Mystic by kenne
The desert teaches by absence. Beneath the old olive tree, the stones rise into a small architecture of intention. Their balance is temporary, but what isn’t? Wind moves through the leaves like an old story. Somewhere nearby, a lizard watches, unbothered by the human need to make order from dust.
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Desert Noir by kenne
black sky—
sepia arms
lifted
in a dry
hallelujah.
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Taking In the Sun On at the Copperqueen Hotel, Waiting on the Patio for Abby and Justin to Take the Copper Mine Tour
The patio smells of rust and lemonade.
History sits nearby, pretending it’s on vacation.
I check my watch, then accuse it of exaggeration.
Below the hill, copper veins run out.
Here, time does not.
I will stand when they appear,
smile at the right moment,
and call this interval nothing,
though it has said
quite a lot.
— kenne
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Smiling Sun On the Wall — Photo-artistry by kenne
At solstice, the shadow holds still,
a perfect exposure.
The wall remembers the sun
not as warmth,
but as form—
enduring, exact, and silent.
— kenne
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Desert Existential Moment — Image by kenne
Thinking is the fever we mistake for health.
We name the world to quiet it,
draw borders around what frightens us.
But fear is faithful—
it returns with every sunrise,
reminding us the map is not the mountain,
and reason only another storm
in the endless desert of being.
— kenne
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Street Musician — Portrait by kenne
A cowboy with a ukulele—
hell, I’ve seen stranger things.
He’s strumming “Blue Moon”
like it’s the last beer in town.
The mustache curls like smoke—
every note a small mercy
for a world gone rough.
Kids stare,
a dog yawns,
the street sways a little
in the rhythm of don’t care.
— kenne
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Empress Leilia On A Foothills Wildflower — Image by kenne
The Empress Leilia lands,
her wings a hush of amber light.
One brief throne—
a wildflower trembling
under her grace.
The mountain holds its breath
to watch beauty pause.
The desert bows once,
then forgets.
— kenne
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Couple Watching the Sunset on the Sea of Cortés Shore in Puerto Peñasco — Image by kenne
The sun sinks into its own silence.
No myth, no god—just heat and gravity
doing their patient work.
The couple, small in the vast geometry,
watch without speaking,
and for once
the scale feels right:
love and ocean,
each immense,
each ending.
— kenne
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Bright Colors of the Season — Image by kenne
I walk through the bright colors of the season,
fire-red leaves falling like words
I once meant to say.
The mountain exhales—
a slow, last sigh.
Somewhere below,
a stream folds light into its cold hands,
and I remember what forgiveness feels like.
— kenne
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Carillo Trail — Image by kenne
Nearing the Birthday
Soon another year
will place its hand
on my shoulder.
Nothing is wasted.
Pain becomes a record
that I was here long enough
to be marked.
I will not ask
for fewer days of pain.
I will ask
for more moments of noticing—
the hummingbird darting
the chipmont on the ground,
The olive tree’s kindness of shade.
If this is my work now,
I accept it gladly:
to love the world
as it is,
from inside
this aging, faithful body.
Tell me,
what else
would I have been practicing for?
— kenne
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