Desert Wind

Photos by Luke M.

Who sees the woman,
an adobe wall
shading her back,
yet missing her face,
year after year.

Her skin, tanned leather
against black hair,
woven as intricately
as her well-worn rug,
day after day.

Who has need of higher learning
when little charms dangle
like earrings above dusty feet,
their hollow echoes lonely
in the desert wind.

A song as ancient
as turquoise and silver                                                

and black rock,
cool now,
by the rain.  
                                                                          
There are few shadows,
only poems and paintings,
better than money
or fame
or the right kinds of friends.

Perhaps, one day,
like Van Gogh,
no one will value her beauty
or her genius,
until she is gone.