When my time on Earth
I would not leave in the winter,
With misty grey skies overhead.
Rather in the hottest part of summer,
With arid sands to form my bed.
To submit to the elemental,
Until only ash remains.
And then spread on the burning sands,
Blending with the golden grains.
To drift under Mojave skies,
Under the burning sun so bright.
In duststorms and in whirlwinds,
Like ravens in their flight.
To rest contented for all times,
Nestled within the Desert Willow.
Lingering sometimes on the creosote,
With white quartz, for my pillow.
There I would forever be at peace,
In the washes and the hills.
The simplest things are life and death,
Mojave dust, no fancy frills.
9/8/13 Alton Texas.
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Comments about this poem (Mojave Dust by Juan Olivarez )
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