Barbara Matson
Desert shimmers shut, incubating Summer.
Grey mice and green-skinned scorpions
stake out house cracks and crevices
to escape hot pepper heat.
Leaves shudder and stumble
dissolve to powder
and exhale away.
Boulders become tanning salons
for brightly coiled snakes,
cooking sunlight in ovens of icy blood.
The morning wakes cool,
beckoning dedicated walkers and faithful dogs
on early discovery of jack rabbits and caterpillars.
Whole trees speak the humming language of foraging bees.
Breath comes easy and air, clean,
cool and fragrant with remaining wildflower blooms.
If we live as advised, “in the moment”
it’s hard to realize
today’s sun, promises to bake breakfast eggs
on the hood of our car,
we plan our getaways
and fill water bottles.
Hellos in the village
become precious reminders
we are survivors of the extreme.
Some adjust plastic palm trees for shade
and sip pomegranate margaritas in camp chairs
others relish the absence of visitors.
Spring’s not quite over,
just shimmering in the distance.
Barbara Matson writes fiction and poetry. She is a published author of Dancing with Dandelions and My Date with Van Gogh. She also paints and her work is displayed at the Borrego Art Institute.