The Desert at Dusk

A poem.

The Desert at Dusk The sculptor chisels the last pinnacle
tapers the top, packs her tools away.
She summons a maiden to dust the spire.
I quicken my climb
to approach the artist, but she's gone,
so pause near a lone mesquite
tucked in tiers of sandstone.
Arms outstretched, I reach for the sun,
completing its westward volley.
It slips past, beds on the horizon.
Cirrus clouds – a striped serape
of orange and gray bands –
wrap around my shoulders.
A trio of saguaro breathes in smoky hues.
With measured steps
a housekeeper ascends the peak
to polish the moon and early stars
I'm barely a brush stroke away
Sally Vogl

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