i’ll become a nomad again
and sense the pulse of birthing time,
a seraphic dance beneath full moon
at the endless sanctuary
wrapped in wind melodies
as spell of the mount
captures seclusive souls
and melts them to prayers
on bright apparels of pilgrims.
and though everybody says
this is heartless or wrong
i don’t need love or home –
and the closeness of sheltering sky.
i know the desert can be savage
but i’ve never felt anything more magical
than the unfolding of its soft evening light.