Cedar Waxwings Arrive Without Announcement — Image by kenne
Soft crests,
yellow-tipped tails—
a small northern fire.
We host them briefly.
The desert offers fruit,
water,
a resting branch.
Hospitality is an old law.
— kenne
They Arrive Without Announcement 2 comments
Cactus Art 2 comments
Cactus Art Image by kenne
A slight shift of angle—
the needles ignite.
So it is with the soul:
what guards the heart
can also shine.
— kenne
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A Sonoran Morning Leave a comment
A Sonoran Morning — Image by kenne
Bright sunlight, black tower, white sky.
The blades carve the morning into pieces.
Somewhere a tank fills,
somewhere a man believes
he has mastered this land.
But the wind owns the rhythm,
and the desert keeps the final say.
— kenne
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Soaptree Yacca Leave a comment
Soaptree Yacca — Image by kenne
Wind scrapes the flats raw.
The yucca holds its green knives
close to the bone of earth.
Bloom is rare.
That’s the point.
In this place
beauty is earned slowly.
— kenne
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Bee On Goldeneye Wildflower 2 comments
Bee On Goldeneye Wildflower — Image by kenne
Spring in the Sonoran—
a bee dives into Goldeneye,
pollen dusting its legs
like barrio chalk
on Sunday shoes.
Work is prayer here.
Work is survival.
— kenne
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Storm Clouds Over the Mountains 2 comments
Storm Clouds Over The Mountains — Image by kenne
Thunder far away
like a drum
warming up.
The desert waits—
patient as stone—
for the first drop
to strike the dust
and turn it
into hope.
— kenne
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Acorn Radicle 2 comments
Acorn Radicle — Image by kenne
Still clinging to its mother branch,
the acorn refuses good manners.
It should wait. The branch says, stay.
The wind says, soon. The acorn says, now.
So it splits its dark shell
sending a pale root nosing into open air—
a small act of rebellion against gravity,
a white question mark lowered into nothing.
In harsh country
you don’t wait for perfect ground.
You start the root before the fall.
You trust the dirt you haven’t met yet.
That’s how deserts are made—
not from patience,
but from something stubborn
refusing to postpone its life.
— kenne
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Tunuri Ridge Sunset Leave a comment
Tanuri Ridge Sunset — Image by kenne
A sunset with thin,
trembling clouds—
the universe painting
without hurry.
Stand still long enough,
and you will feel chosen.
— kenne
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Still Fierce Grit Within Our Hearts 1 comment
Kenne and Joy on the Road — Image by kenne
O let the world its trials send,
Its grinding wheels, its piercing darts;
We shall not yield, we shall not bend—
There’s still fierce grit within our hearts.
— kenne
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Delicate Arch: A Name More Perception Than Reality Leave a comment
Originally named “The Chaps,” however, in 1934, during a scientific expedition
through what is now Arches National Park, the research party referred to it as
“Delicate Arch.” — Image by kenne (June 12, 2014)
Delicate Arch stands alone,
wearing its red sandstone chaps,
bow-legged against the wind.
No saddle, no rider—
just sky for company
and a long trail of light
riding out west.
— kenne
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Birdbill Dayflower 2 comments
Birdbill Dayflower — Image by kenne
In the high canyons
of the Santa Catalinas,
the Birdbill Dayflower
blooms testing the theory:
that beauty
need not last
to matter.
By dusk, it has folded
its argument into seed.
— kenne
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In Honor of Georgia O’Keeffe Leave a comment
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
On black
the gold grows louder.
Each curve deliberate,
each throat of light
a doorway inward.
Look long enough
and the flower
becomes landscape.
— kenne
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Great Blue Heron 1 comment
Great Blue Heron — Image by kenne
Golden eye
tracking light on scales.
No hurry in him—
only weather,
only patience
older than bridges upstream.
The river keeps moving.
He does not.
— kenne
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The Presence Of The Reaven 3 comments
Reaven In The Desert — Image by kenne
I have distrusted symbols
most of my life,
yet there it is—
black wings over sand
that has forgotten rain.
The bird does not promise rescue.
It promises presence.
In the desert,
that distinction matters.
— kenne
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Most of My Friends Are No Longer Here 1 comment
Most of my friends are no longer here.
I keep their numbers
in a phone that will never ring.
It is a holy thing,
this absence—
like a door left open
to a room I cannot enter
but refuse to close.
— kenne
