THE DRY

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