ALMOST SUMMER

Though sweet, my poems drip
Blood, life wounds
Acquired
Through acts of being,
Half-healed scars of
Heart and soul.

Time in the desert stings with
Orange heat,
And long ago, on Sundays, Jesus stopped
Coming to church,
Simply refused, preferring instead
A latte at Starbucks.

Days wander on,
Like dreams.

I miss the sand and mist and blue green sea,
The faithful angel guarding the tomb
Of my beloved.