origin story

deepdown running, the wildest 
eye, the one that knows what the clematis
is thinking as it makes its way 
up the rusted archway

bluesky nodding, holding court with 
sprouts and buds, drinking loudly 
of sunshine sweets and greengrass love

Sunday morning wheelbarrow hands,
moving rivers of rock between 
gangs of sharp-tongued cactus, weaving
like a drunkard because I’m so tired
of the quiet

broken only by birdsong and chime

then the words come to me on the desert 
wind, blown in rough like tumbleweed,
they say we have been speaking
to you all day, whispering 
your name from the tips of the prickly
pear

what if you listened?