That Which Knows Memories of Blossoming

The desert is fast.

That is the way you have to be here.

If you wish to survive, do not let your feet

grow roots,

lest they be burned for standing in one

place too long.

These sands wipe away history far too

quickly

Or else preserve it entirely.

It is all or none,

a fossilized footprint,

or those wiped away overnight by a wind.

Where is the slow unfolding, something

cyclical, to remind me that all that dies

comes back again,

that all that lives does die?

I suppose there are those who are

energized by the constant renewal,

And were I one to want to forget, perhaps

an evaporated world would suit me more.

But I am not one to move quickly,

or wish the days refreshed so that

yesterday is only evidenced by the fact

that I am here today.

I intend to remain amongst the vast

untamed.

The slow decay.

That which knows memories of

blossoming.

There is no way to be there.

She is much less demanding.

If you wish to survive,

let your feet grow

roots,

that your grandchildren might eat

from those same branches;