In this hot place where the sun’s warmth makes grow,
That which is sweet to taste, and fine to show,
Downpours creep up and pass as would dreams do,
One tick a pool, the next a dune all through,
And wisps of wind without the brawn to shove,
Play tricks of swirls only seen from above,
The clouds, and the tall trees-some bend, some stretch,
Perfect angles for the wooer’s to catch.
Would she care for the way a branch could twist,
At some points great, others poor like her wrists,
Or how drama is read at its apex,
Intense as the fury felt when she texts,
And to strip the wood from one on the floor…
The bark fraying as she grabbed, pulled and tore?