Each morning a new bloom
truly more vibrant than purple or pink,
and I appreciation this God-given joy.
Ungodly-100-degree-July-days defy any garden,
even this petunia in a blue pot struggles
reaches for water, sips dew drops with desperation
just to survive.
I sip morning coffee
and water the garden
before any heat edges over the land--
wild birds sing, eat the sunflower seed,
my dog barks as neighbors walk down the alley.
I watch in the quiet as the sun steps over the Sandias.
Marveling at this wonder a billion years old--
and count my blessings with each flower.
There is not just one bloom--
but 20-30 blessings opening in ernest.
Tears spring to my eyes because without theses blooms
my morning is empty, my heart is broken
from every yesterday's pain.
Sunbeams break empty waves undulate into a withered desert there is one butterfly on a 24 hour adventure a raven, a rabbit, and a coyote– all minding their own business a bee searches for one purple flower for shade and pollen
the red sun is angry, anxious heart scorched black her resentment explodes into 107 degree days cacti sweat like silent sentinels
the mountain tries to console her let her know she is not abandoned perhaps the universe turned its back upon her but the stars reach to hold her she’s not appeased alas, her rays
still rise in the East and set in the West she reflects,