Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?
“People don’t choose dreams. Dreams chose them. So the question I’m getting to is,
do you have the courage to grab the dream that picked you?
That befits you and grips you?”
A Desert Morning In The Age Of Novel Coronavirus — Image by kenne
Midnight poems are bicycles
Taking us on safer journeys
Than jets
Quicker journeys
Than walking
But never as beautiful
A journey
As my back
Touching you under the quilt
Midnight poems
Sing a sweet song
Saying everything
Is all right
Everything
Is
Here for us
I reach out
To catch the laughter
The dog thinks
I need a kiss
Bicycles move
With the flow
Of the earth
Like a cloud
So quiet
In the October sky
Like licking ice cream
From a cone
Like knowing you
Will always
Be there
All day long I wait
For the sunset
The first star
The moon rise
I move
To a midnight
Poem
Called
You
Propping
Against
The dangers
The lower part of this Bug Springs trail in Santa Catalina Mountains trail was
destroyed by a wildfire in the early 2000s. In the years since then, the ground cover
has returned now, providing a carpet at the feet of the few remaining burnt trees.