Waste/Safe Land

***This poem is a continuation from River Styx and Desert Red

Travelling the desert

a hundred days

I felt sand

scouring

flaying

devouring

flesh from my bones

molding

forming

another me.

Peddlar man

quiet

plodding along

but inherently

seeking oasis after oasis

as I needed rest.

Eccentric

he refused to answer

any

all

cajoling

questions.

Shaking his head

not in annoyance

more like a parent indulging their child.

We crested that last sandhill

my mouth fell open

a silent o

as before us

spread out

a verdant sea

tears spilling down my face.

Sept. 15/18

Photo by Robert Lukeman on Unsplash