Though fall has returned home

The hot summer sun still beats upon my furled brow.

The desert does not take kindly to the change of seasons;

Preferring to redden and blister the flesh ‘til left no recourse,

This has always been her way.

Her bleak landscape sparsely dotted with cacti and scrub brush,

Inhabited by venomous creatures big and small.

Her song is that of the coyote howling for her lost love,

His bones bleached white by the fire, laid waste amongst the sands.

Still even Hell must succumb to God’s will

Though not without fighting ‘til its dying breath,

Taking holiday until it is invited back in three seasons time.

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~