Must I live with fantasy?
It has no serrated edges,
Nothing that cuts into my being
With its uncompromising discomfort.
It is smooth as a baby’s cheek,
Not fretted with the years
Of the heart’s drought and infrequent rain.
My reality is so daunting;
It frightens me with its insistence
On things of here and today,
Leaving so little for what’s gone or to come.
The desert lives in my soul;
Its music relentless,
Sharp pain dipped in notes of joy-
Shifting with white-beige-grey sands
Stumbling over footprints
And cacti
And mirage-
Spinning with the red-yellow-saffron
Of whirling skirts,
Glitter of glass against the sun,
Veils lifted by a hot wind-
The passion of acceptance
And the earth-
My reality…