and nothing walks upon it
grasses shiver and the voles sleep,
vipers rest in their cold coils
there is nothing that lives
that does not cast down its bones
there are thorns for the sufferer,
a moment in the farthest reaches of a man
where the sweep of a prairie can carry him back
a thousand years
he feels the dust between his fingers
and tears in his eyes when the wind finds him alone
it will bloom in the spring, things close to the ground,
life tugging, coaxing it for another year
a desert dies in the winter
but it is not death
there are men who do not see its life,
who will tear it down in an hour
an ungodly demolition for a bottle of wine
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