a thing I would deplore if it were not mine.
I lie awake every night listening to the coyotes laugh
and can only think the desert drove them mad.
They were so beautiful
so late at night
but with dawn they slide away into hills
that crumble apart beneath my fingers.
My version of grass is long stemmed weeds,
my love of rain comes from its absence,
and I want to think this life is ugly.
I want to see all the bad and none of the good
because that would make leaving an easy,
But it's not easy when life has been tinted
by shades of brown and gray.
That sagebrush smell has creeped its way
into the facets of my life.
My car reeks of serenity after rain.
My hair is forever windblown.
My eyes match the blue-grey of small leaves that weep
with the blood of my childhood.
If only it were black and white I could merely hate this place
I no longer wish to call home.
Sagebrush roots are deep
and twisted into hearts like wire.
They are no easier to remove than the longing I feel
for those hottest and driest of days.
That blistering heat sinks into my soul and my heart
beats so much stronger for it.
I hate myself for my love.
I hate this place for its beauty.
I hate so I may forget,
and I hate to feel some form of distance
that long drives cannot provide.
I embrace the coyote's madness as my own.
I run to other deserts only to be pulled back by the mountain's call;
I shake in my bed and smooth dirt over the cracks in my heart.
Are they caused by the people or the place?
I can't tell anymore.
I knew it was the moment I would remember
with such bittersweet feelings,
even if they all would not.
I look back on these people I used to know,
people who never knew me,
and laugh with the wild dogs in my backyard.
It's time to move on and run wild with another pack.
Instincts mean more than a heart's desire
so I follow them away from my nest.
I fly on dark pavement,
weighed down with thoughts of houses on hilltops
and the small leaves on sage,
but still I fly on.
Heartache and fear are my growing pains,
and I can only hope they'll never fade.
True passion cannot reside where we lay our bodies lay to rest.
Dreams don't take the form of where we are,
only where we strive to be.
It's time to find myself out in the craggy hills of the southwest,
in the crashing waves of undiscovered beaches.
I find saltwater in my tears
and wonder if it's enough to draw the tide to me.
If home is where the heart resides then no place is my home.
I have my beautiful cage in the peeling blue paint of my childhood,
I have the temporary love of a desert home
full to the brim of knowledge,
I have the creeping greens over ancient stone walls
far in the distance.
But I don't have a home.
A home is for somedays,
and these days are now.