Before the dunes, savage
arugula stretched in fields
across a bed of crusted clay and rock.
Wind erased my tracks from each crest
by the time I’d reached the next rise.
What else did I expect?
Each morning, the Sahara
unfolded golden wings
for me, for wanderers, for no one.
For anyone there to notice.
Never time enough to feel
like I belonged wherever I was.
Lush arugula ripe for the picking.
Desert weed. Nobody would eat that.
Too wild, too strong.
