There is no more searching for it –
resting after our long hike,
inside the yellow oilcloth tent
like being in the stomach of Africa
If this were the city
we’d know how far we walked,
measuring city blocks -
but the desert is closer to the rhythm
of the sea
The women make fruit salad in the distance
as the men nap by the fire cauldron -
my man, with a potholder over his eyes,
sunglasses on top… funny
face.
Sitting in the space between dunes
the breeze kisses
my one sunburned cheek
Listening to the breathing tent –
I will take the desert home in my shoes
-rc
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