I know the dearly departed
see me, as I see them there
lining the hillside: a barcode,
symbologizing fallen warriors.
Saguaros stand massive
in the foothills of the axis mundi,
auratic, radiating an antique life,
three times more so than
the oldest Hollywood western.
Fifty leagues
from the ancient pacific,
their thick skin throbs
with the rhythm of the rain.
A watery heart deep within
lies palisaded by a wooden cage
The spent peels of its first fruit are laid to rest
at its feet, in an offering of moisture to the sky.
Great dessicator, bring us heat and
sunshine, bring us life, bring us rain
their juice evaporates, painting
the clouds with pulpy magenta,
scattering crimson dream-sand across
the darkening desert. Reaching for the sky,
their forked shadows creep
Eastward across Sonoran sand
Ozymandian in the desert, Saguaros stand
displaying their hundreds of thousands
of varied divine forms, infinite arms
ever-raised, in salutation or surrender.
sage pleated pillars stretch skyward
like spiny beanstalks, their posture statuesque,
plumb with the congenital authority of a god
and the spiritual pressure of a mystic.
A select few are crowned with corinthian capitals.
An eyeless artist etches a thousand self-similar distributaries there
and a labyrinth erupts slithering outwards like lightning.
Fasciating into fractals, crested Saguaros attest the axis mundi.
the Sonoran Avian Philharmonic orchestrates every sunrise:
the woodwind tittering of the desert birds accompanies
the gila woodpecker’s percussion, as fresh eastern
daylight illuminates all we’ve ever done or died trying.
Sunrays glitter over the walls, Light envelops the labyrinth,
and all is clear. Sure; you could sell your dreams
to find the way, but at the center, you’d find nothing.
In the middle, one finds only stillness
and the pinhole of release.
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