as the façade slips away,
shaking off the loose soil, you stand.
scraping the dirt built up beneath
unkempt nails, you
were once comfortable here.
memories fray like strings:
tendrils now tiny threads
thin and frail.
carve a hole from sand.
construct a dusty semblance
of home. from sediment and rock,
snakes replace the insects that fed you
starve, shrivel into the limestone scared.
sacred water. will not be spilled
for you here. you, a desert
rose.
So Nadine Writes 