Desert Dweller Now

Back to square one again.
Soul seeking that ray of darkness *—
pure faith—listening for the never-
ending wordless tune hope sings.**

Like a snail that's lost its shell,
skin's turned tan from hot desert
sun and wind.   Dreams all have
scattered over Arabian Gulf waters.  

I have no Mt. Tanakami, as the ancient
poets had, no monkey's perch like
Basho rigged—platform among
pines, no nest in a cherry-apple tree,

Hsu Ch'uan-style.   Desert dweller
for a while, longing for the mountain's
steep slopes, empty hills, drip of the
spring to keep me company.  

One takes a chance—leaves behind all
pseudo virtues and vices.   Follows the trail
of exotic spices in a new direction hoping
for connection with sand and camels,

stolen girls from far away sold as
slaves, grandmothers who only raise
batolas*** to kiss grandchildren.
When the desert wind brushes sand

like a silk shayla across my face,
I laugh—hear myself say,
Nothing now to fear— I'm here,
senescent yet being born again.

    *St. John of the Cross
  **Emily Dickinson
***face masks worn by many Arabian women