The Sonora

Snow lights crevices in a saguaro forest;
arms reach through cold,
wait for sunrise to crest the hill.

It mounds against the cholla
across already-white plains
and long indentations of rock mesas,
striations coated for a few hours
until the sun’s zenith, when every cactus
absorbs the moisture into itself.

Still, variations of pale remain, compliments
of ultra-violet rays that bleach color
from all they see. Primordial salts gather
in ancient puddles and dried creek beds
where the earth curls slices of ash colored mud
and rain so rare it measures a mere few inches.

Fires will not burn this terrain,
but the desert sustains no angel.
It tests the most holy;
stones resemble bread
and light masquerades as water.

The courageous, or sometimes, the mystical,
wander this ground to commune
with its eternal warmth,
to decipher runes carved
by those who walked here
before their bones scattered,
and through which cacti grow.