Your skin like sand – I drift along your borderline.
Move South, I am the satiate of flame.
Feel it closing on my bones,
these stones and dirt eroding, over time.
Fir and Spruce and all that keeps you – still,
like water turned to steam,
your forest turned to stone.
Blown through the wind like blue-hued damselflies
now resting on my skin.
We amble to the waterside,
spread toes, throw stones
down by the waterline –
we shake the dirt from our feet.
Dust from your killing shoes,
we take a turn, like prairie fires,
a dance in a dusty, open tomb.
So I stop, a breath away,
and hovering over the land,
I sip your dust like wine
then, feeling the ground beneath,
I let myself upon, to dig my fingers
deep within, lift stones to mouth,
and know the good years from the drought.
But your dustbowl grays my hair
and your tornadoes fill my veins again.
Your wildfires will immolate me,
but your thunder consecrates me,
and your rains, your rains are satiating.