An Old Man's Need

I am desperately needing the desert
and am not sure why,
most things being literally the same:
my height, my name,
my predilection for sadness,
and past reviews of accomplishments
and, yes, the madness.

There’s the here-then-gone of bees,
frail desert flowers,
summer rain and summer heat;
snow and ice in winter;
and, except for windblown sand,
the pervading silence
that is palpable day and night.

These, the glories of the desert:
banes and delights:
sudden rains push dry seeds to blossom,
cacti to thrive;
ants to scurry in lines on the sand,
bees to fill their hives
and reptiles to burst out of skins;

nothing when you tend to expect it:
a joy, a curse,
either blessing or timely regrets
life overturned, then once again erected;
the now, the then
of living on the sharp edge of joy,
the blunt sledge of pain.

The desert will never be tamed:
neither wind carved landscapes of canyons
or moaning wind;
the ever receding mirages
or drifting sand:

like the ocean that in changing is constant,
the desert is never the same.