Atrium

23/30

( a Sonnet )

The pinks of upper desert where I go,
The season slakes its thirst ‘ere mesa bleed.
When brash santanas barrel bending low,
To scorch and turn all into tumbleweed.

But come a blight the wind of colder days,
And raises twice the altitude of hush.
A hidden veil to bring a new moon phase,
This constellation arc of whisper’d rush.

And never was the nape of sky so deep,
From where I watch and see a universe.
To be all this and nevermore to sleep,
But dreams are how I’m able to traverse.

So clear the ‘scape it lets in all the light,
The atrium of sky, its starry night.