We sat on the porch
the old woman and I,
our rocking chairs squeaked
with every thrust of energy.
“Is it hard to live here?”
“Only if it doesn’t rain.”
The woman whispered,
her voice soft against the desert’s strength.
“Why stay in such a harsh place?”
“Oh . . . the beauty.”
Cactus bloomed with tissues of color as
insects danced amongst the nectar
gifted by the parched land.
Above, a graceful hawk pierced the air
slapping the silence with its flight.
The dusty porch faced the evening.
Our words drifted into a hidden peace.
Song birds filled our space and
clouds filled the sky.
“How long have you been here?”
My thoughts not yet quenched.
“Since the beginning.”
The old woman hummed as she eyed the past
nestled in the rusted machinery.
“This is God’s land you know.”
Her crevassed face and gnarled hands
caught the warm breeze.
“Oh yes. When He finished creation
He deposited the left-overs right here.
It’s ours to savor.”
The old woman relaxed in her rocker
and gazed at the drizzle
approaching from the horizon.