THE DRY
The dry sand billows up in the hot breeze
As if blindly searching for a place to stay
No respite under another day’s baking sun
Other winds that blow, each have a name
Like Bora or Mistral, yet not seeking fame
But here in this arid desert there are none
All discrete identities are just blown away
By sunset, a welcome coolness by degrees
The pale sand is sculpted into a rolling dune
That’s shifting its shape, assuming new poses
The curves and angles that almost never last
So few people know of these driest of places
It’s often just a fantasy about seeing an oasis
The prospect of water like a spell that is cast
But such dryness is a curse that rain opposes
Treated with disdain by both sun and moon