So dry, all spine—
I thought maybe you died,
but with the rain
you’re armored
in tiny leaves again.
I like the way you hold your flowers
just above the moon,
my one true ocotillo,
carefully scribbled
against the sky.
So dry, all spine—
I thought maybe you died,
but with the rain
you’re armored
in tiny leaves again.
I like the way you hold your flowers
just above the moon,
my one true ocotillo,
carefully scribbled
against the sky.
This poem was published in the summer of 2013 in Issue 14 of Askew, a print poetry journal published twice a year.
One response
• Mikaela, February 6, 2013 at 9:27 am
Oh—I wish I was in Anza Borrego to see them right now. I’m sure they are blooming! “I like the way you hold your flowers just above the moon,”… like the spindly leaves are pushing the flowers up as high as they possibly can!