lush green layered
dew clad leaves,
begins to wander now.
Into a tapestry
it weaves
Mojave pattern fine,
slowly
between space and time,
the warp and woof.
The raw sienna tones
become
a warm wool blanket,
made to cloak
cold, caring bones
when alone I lie
in Winter's white
free form fantasy;
the fire sparks
emerging lovers
like mirages
in a Kalahari heart.
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