Sonoran Spring

Sylvia Plath Type Beat

The green grass grew between the brown rocks around the dry ground under the big sky.

Patchy, like a teenage beard among the feet of cactus with big arms that stand guard.

Miracles are just anomalies that benefit someone and this desert is full of the miraculous.

The dress dragged along her kicked dust until great palms yawned.

One long table to gather, clunking aluminum cans and clicking solo cups.

We fancy the shapes within fire pit’s reach as the backyard howled in the name of their moons.

A sprouting marriage from the wisest of mountains benefits us all.

A miracle indeed.